


Deus ex Machina

by datalaur



Series: Deus ex Machina [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Enemies, F/M, Intrigue, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Peril, Psychological Trauma, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 1998-03-01
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 61,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datalaur/pseuds/datalaur
Summary: Please do not copy or repost without permission.Artist:barbsartBegins in late 2371, one week after the destruction of theEnterprise-D (Generations).When Data's newly installed emotion chip overloaded, it fused into his neural net.  Over Geordi's objections, Data agrees to go with cyberneticist Bruce Maddox to the Daystrom Annex for repairs.  Disaster strikes on the way there.
Relationships: Data & Geordi La Forge, Data/Bruce Maddox, Geordi La Forge & Bruce Maddox, Geordi La Forge/Leah Brahms
Series: Deus ex Machina [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595050
Comments: 23
Kudos: 19





	1. Bruce

**Author's Note:**

> _When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,  
>  I all alone beweep my outcast state,  
> and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,  
> and look upon myself and curse my fate..._  
>    
> \- Shakespeare, sonnet 29 (partially quoted by Bruce Maddox in _The Measure of a Man_ )

_Asshole_.

Oh, nobody actually said it, but the reaction was plain enough. At least Picard only lets wariness show, but Riker and La Forge? They don't even try to hide their feelings when I walk into the main conference room on Starbase 258.

I can't really blame them for hating me, even though it's been more than six years. After all, I probably would have killed Data if I'd dismantled him. Not physically -- I'm still positive I could've put Data's brain back together afterwards -- but his essence surely would have been lost in the synaptic download process. Don't think that the thought hasn't tormented me every single day since the hearing.

Data never seemed to hold a grudge, and I was deeply grateful for his mercy; he could have easily finished me professionally. Since then, we'd corresponded most weeks, met a few times. We'd jointly authored a few papers, even won an award on one. Although he never said any such thing, I thought that Data might have come to consider me a friend.

But that was before the emotion chip.

Smile firmly in place, I walk towards the conference table, and Data. But somehow there isn't any condemnation in his expression, only that wonderful half-smile and...

The difference stops me dead in my tracks. Even if I hadn't already known that Data had installed the emotion chip eight days earlier, the devastating expressiveness of his eyes would've instantly told me.

 _My god_ , I think with dismay.

Picard's flat voice startles me. "Commander Maddox."

Belatedly I snap to attention. "Reporting as ordered, sir."

He keeps me standing there for what feels like an eternity, sweating like a first year cadet. How the hell had Picard known it was me on the runabout? I'd been summoned in no uncertain terms even before docking, yet surely my name held no significance for anyone in starbase Ops. Why would they have thought to notify the _Enterprise_ crew of my arrival?

With alarming mildness, Picard says, "Vice Admiral Haftel informed me that you would be coming to take Data back to Daystrom. One might say I have some reservations about the idea. Have a seat while I finish the staff meeting."

_Haftel? Shit._

Swallowing hard, I take the proffered chair next to La Forge, with Data directly opposite me. The captain sits at the head of the table, to my right. Riker and several other members of the staff are there as well. I keep my smile on as a shield against the near-palpable hostility. 

While La Forge continues briefing his plan to get the _Enterprise_ -D's ruined saucer off Veridian III, I lace my fingers together and try to look relaxed. The overt reminder of my affiliation with Haftel is an unforeseen complication. The situation had been bad enough already without Haftel blundering about. Worse than bad. Picard won't have forgotten the way that fucker treated Data and Lal five years ago.

I don't think Data blames that fumble-fingered bastard for her death, but I do. 

Except... it was partly my fault too. Even though I'd refused the order to go get Lal, I hadn't quite had the guts to jump the chain and go to Haftel's superiors, or to go to the lawyers. Maybe I could have stopped Haftel. Maybe not, and I would have thrown away my career for nothing. I'll never know. But the fact remains that I didn't do anything to stop Haftel, and Data's two week old daughter cascaded from the stress of his threats.

Nothing's changed in the years since Data buried her in space. Sure, Haftel's been more careful than ever to say all the right words, but in truth Data and Lore are mere things to be used for whatever purpose suits him.

I catch myself fidgeting and squeeze my hands tightly together under the table. I can't stop wondering what Haftel had hoped to accomplish with that call. Maybe he was trying to pressure Picard. No, surely the old man knew that heavy-handed methods wouldn't work.

On reflection, I decide it's more likely the suspicious old bastard was jerking my leash again, giving me yet another subtle reminder of his power, and that regardless of my dad's influence, he can finish me if he finds any proof that I'm crossing him.

Then again, maybe I'm just being paranoid. God knows I've done enough ass-kissing for the express purpose of regaining Haftel's trust. No, he couldn't suspect me of anything. My incursions into the computer systems are too carefully hidden. Surely, if he did suspect anything, he'd have gotten rid of me already. Unless he knows I won't be able to find proof. Or maybe he's biding his time, since I'm his only real hope of getting Data to come to Daystrom.

I glance at Data and my resolve firms. Everything else aside, the emotion chip has to be fixed. It doesn't matter what Haftel wants; no matter what it costs me, I will not permit any harm to come to Data. But what is Haftel planning? As I think over the possibilities for the hundredth time, the discussion on salvage operations winds down. 

Finally it's my turn to speak. I decide I'd better get right to the point. The room seems to be getting chillier with every second.

"Captain Picard," I begin earnestly, "I did not come to _take_ Lieutenant Commander Data anywhere. I've come to _ask_ him _if_ he would accept temporary orders to Daystrom." 

Picard's no slouch. He picks up on the deliberate emphasis and relaxes slightly.

So far, so good. I place the datawafer with the proposed orders on the table. Turning to Data, I say, "Commander Data, I'm very concerned about the emotion chip's malfunction. I'd like to work with you on determining exactly why it overloaded, and then collaborate on repairs. Also, Admiral Haftel has put a great deal of emphasis on Lore's repairs lately. I think you should be there as I approach the final stages."

Of course I don't say why. Support the chain of command... that's what an officer's supposed to do, right? Even when he disagrees with his superior. Yet all I have are my suspicions, really. Certain areas of research suppressed, others revived and elevated beyond all reason, veiled threats and vague hints.

Data smiles slightly and I have to yank my gaze away when I realize my eyes are lingering. Oh, all right; I caught myself staring at his perfect pale lips and imagining how they'd feel against mine. 

The sound of a sharply indrawn breath gets my attention. Shit, I forgot about the empath! Her dark eyes are filled with avid curiosity. 

_Slimy peeker_ , I think bitterly.

I should've known the Betazoid would sense my feelings, even though I've managed to keep them from everyone else. Hell, I'd managed to deny them to myself for a long time. But I've come to terms with my feelings. They're irrelevant, and that's all there is to it.

 _How I feel doesn't matter. I won't let it get in the way of my duty_ , I think at Troi as we lock gazes. Stupid, since I know she can't actually read thoughts. I break eye contact, humiliated by a knowing gaze that seems to see every single one of my pathetic desires.

Everyone is staring.

Picard asks Troi if there's anything amiss. I look her in the eye again, my heart thumping painfully against my ribs. She can destroy me easily enough, and maybe even deservedly so, but the consequences for Data could be disastrous.

"No, sir. There's no problem," the empath says slowly, boring those dark alien eyes into my soul. Somehow she must be getting enough to know that I would sooner die than hurt Data.

Trying not to betray any relief, I begin, "Captain, Data must be repaired immediately. He's at risk every moment that damaged chip is in his neural net. Please, you must let him come with me. Please."

As if I hadn't spoken, Picard says, "Mr. Data, you're already aware of my feelings in this matter. This is your decision. Despite Vice Admiral Haftel's concerns, rest assured that I will support you, should you choose to remain here."

_Shit! Haftel did try leaning on Picard._

"Thank you, sir," Data says. "I appreciate your support. Commander Maddox has been most helpful to me in the past, and there is considerable merit in the idea of obtaining repairs at Daystrom. In addition, I am greatly interested in seeing his progress on repairing Lore."

 _Yes!_

Then La Forge starts in. "Now wait just a minute!"

Ha. As if I hadn't seen _that_ coming. In fact, I've been counting heavily on that reaction. Even though I can't stand the man, at the moment I'm very glad Data has such a loyal friend. Or maybe more-than-friend. I saw the intel speculation on those two. It doesn't bother me.

Fine. It does. But it's none of my business. Friends or lovers, it doesn't change a thing for me. Not a damned thing. 

Shooting me a dirty look that even his VISOR can't hide, La Forge tells Data, "You don't need _him_ at all. We can fix your chip here and-"

"Using _what_? Junk off a junked ship?" That idiot's complacency is unbelievable. "Even if anything is salvageable, checking it out could take weeks! And then there's getting replacement gear for what can't be fixed, not to mention the time to diagnose and fix the chip!"

I grip the table, trying to get my emotions under control. I try again with a calmer voice. "Commander La Forge, your proposal is completely unacceptable. From an equipment perspective alone, Data's got to come to Daystrom."

"Really?"

"Yes, really! And once I've got the chip properly repaired, it'll be tested thoroughly. Under controlled conditions, this time!"

La Forge's lips compress and I know he's gotten the point. I shouldn't let him upset me, but it's absolutely incomprehensible that he simply popped in the chip and took Data on an away mission without even doing any real testing.

"And I suppose you're not planning any extra little experiments?"

"Certainly not," I retort, hating the engineer even more, if that's possible. Yet he's playing right into my hands. I toss the second datawafer, the one with La Forge's proposed transfer orders, onto the table like a gauntlet. "If you don't believe me, why don't you come to Daystrom too?"

La Forge's expression goes from anger and suspicion to total confusion. 

Suppressing the urge to laugh, I add, "I know you do the best you can with your limited background in cybernetics, but it's high time you received proper training."

"Commander," Picard warns.

Yeah, it was worth pissing off Picard. Watching La Forge fume for another moment confirms that he's as predictable as I expected. I had made it my business to find out Starfleet's plans for the engineer -- he'd been slated for what had to be a dream job at Utopia Planetia. But now La Forge is mine.

I swing back to the captain, schooling my tone to one that is far more respectful. "Sir, what I was going to say was that Lieutenant Commander La Forge shouldn't be the only one to receive training. As Chief Engineer, it's clear that Data's safety can't be his first priority at all times. I recommend that at least one other member of the engineering staff accompany us. Preferably two."

Picard and Riker exchange glances. Then the captain steeples his fingers and gazes at me coldly. "I expect that both Data and Mr. La Forge will be called to testify when the hearing gets underway."

"Naturally that would take precedence," I agree.

"I will need Commander La Forge back before the _Enterprise_ -E begins her engineering trials. Commander Data and any engineering staff are to return one month prior to the ship's commissioning." He fixes a gimlet eye on me. "I reserve the right to recall my officers at any time for any reason."

"As you wish, sir." Insult though it is, having another safety net suits me just fine.

Captain Picard turns first to Data. "Are you completely comfortable with the stipulations placed upon your transfer?"

"Yes, Captain," Data replies. 

"And you?" Picard asks La Forge. "I am aware you had some personal reasons for wanting to go to the shipyard."

"No, sir, that can wait. I'd rather go with Data and help repair his chip. After all, I wouldn't want to miss a single opportunity for training." He gives me a nasty smirk.

 _Shove a spanner up it, you greasy snipe_ , I smirk right back.

Leaning forward in his chair, the captain says, "I expect that any actual work on the emotion chip will wait until Commander La Forge arrives."

"Yes, sir. Barring an emergency."

"Ah." Picard's eyes narrow. "Precisely what sort of emergency?"

"Captain Picard, let's not mince words. Under no circumstances will I cause or permit any harm to Data. You have my word of honor." I deliberately look at Troi for a long moment, then back at the captain. It seems empaths have their uses, after all.

After a moment, Picard says, "Very well, then. Mr. La Forge, I'll need you to finish overseeing the main salvage operations. You can join Data as soon as that's complete. Which of your staff do you propose to send?"

"Ensign Harkins would be my first choice." La Forge glances at Data, who nods. "Even though he's less than a year out of the academy, he's already impressed me with his brains and initiative." The engineer twists towards me and I can see the suspicion on his face. "I had Ensign Harkins scheduled to lead a salvage team, but it's no problem to cut him loose right away so he can accompany Data."

"Glad to hear it," I say, just to rattle him. If that bonehead thinks having this Harkins boy along will bother me, he's dead wrong. True, I'd have preferred La Forge right away too, but even a nub ensign will suffice for my purposes.

There are a few more details, but basically it's all arranged, just as easily as that. Data, the ensign and I will be leaving for Daystrom in the morning. Hard to believe, after all the sweating I've done.


	2. Geordi

  
"C'mon, Data. Let's catch up with Deanna. I want to talk with her." Making sure Data's following me, I hurry down the corridor. "Hey, Dee, wait up!"

She turns, waiting until we reach her side.

"What the hell was all that about? What did you sense from Maddox?"

The counselor sighs. "Geordi, it's not appropriate for me to discuss that with anyone but the captain."

There's no way I'm letting her off that easy. "Don't you stonewall me. Not about this. Something's wrong and you're damn well going to tell me what it is."

She holds up her hands. "All right, all right! I can say this much. Commander Maddox is... well, concerned about Data's wellbeing. _Deeply_ concerned. Really, Geordi, that's all I can tell you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a counseling session."

I catch Data's elbow as he starts to follow her down the corridor. "Uh-uh, Data. We've gotta talk. In private. Right now."


	3. Data

"Data, I hate that arrogant son of a bitch! And I don't trust him for one second! Just what the hell is he up to, huh?"

Geordi has begun to pace. I decide the question is rhetorical. Although Geordi has always had an intense dislike for the commander, the fact that he is using such vulgarities tells me that he is more upset than anticipated.

I decide that a beverage would be appropriate. Since the installation of my emotion chip, I have noticed that Counselor Troi offers me beverages much more often. Upon questioning, she admitted that she often uses them as a means to help her clients relax. Her remark that, "When one is feeling strong emotions, it helps to have something to do with one's hands," has turned out to be surprisingly accurate. 

I walk to the replicator. "Hot chocolate, please. Geordi, would you care for some iced coffee?"

"No!"

Taken aback by his vehemence, I reconsider the situation. Would an offer of food have been more acceptable? That seems unlikely, since we had met as usual for breakfast in his quarters at 0700. Geordi rarely consumes a mid-morning snack unless he has foregone breakfast. 

After additional thought, I decide upon a statement to both assuage his fears and validate his feelings. "Geordi, while I understand why you have never forgiven Commander Maddox, I believe your apprehension is unwarranted. Still, I am grateful that you are concerned for-"

"Come on, Data! Don't you think it's a little odd that all of a sudden, you're his top priority?"

"Not at all," I reply, seating myself on the couch. "He is concerned about my emotion chip malfunction, and rightly so."

"Really? I didn't see him running to your side when that downed probe's short circuit scrambled your memories. And what about the time the D'Arsay archive screwed up your net? What about that, huh?"

Although I feel what is surely either annoyance or irritation, I reason that an emotional reaction on my part will do nothing to improve the situation. Tamping down the distracting emotional input, I sip my hot chocolate. I pay deliberate attention to the pleasant taste and warmth of the sweet beverage, noting that the starbase crew prefers a recipe that includes a touch of cinnamon. 

"Both incidents were short-lived," I reply, "and I submitted complete reports and diagnostics." I smile serenely at my best friend. Having achieved an equitable balance between logic and emotion, never again will I permit myself to be ruled by my feelings.

"Uh uh," Geordi replied, tapping his VISOR meaningfully. "Something else is going on. I could _see_ his biometrics, and I'm telling you he was scared shitless by whatever he thought Deanna was going to say."

"Yet we heard what the counselor did say." I take another sip and decide that next time I will request hot chocolate with whipped cream. Perhaps I will have chocolate shavings on top. I suspect that the tactile sensation as they melt on my tongue will be pleasurable. "Clearly, she does not feel there is any cause for alarm. Nor do I."

Noting his expression, I try another tack. "Geordi, if Commander Maddox had some ulterior motive, surely he would not request your presence, particularly in light of your longstanding antipathy for each other."

Geordi stops pacing and glares at me, his hands on his hips. "I can't believe you're actually going with him after the way he treated you!"

I savor the unfamiliar feeling of exasperation. "Commander Maddox's actions since the hearing have convinced me that he would not act in a manner contrary to my best interests. There is also the matter of Lore."

"I don't care about Lore! I care about _you_ and I don't like the idea of that asshole messing around in your head!"

My dismay must show. Dropping into a chair, Geordi says, "Damn it. I'm sorry, Data. I didn't mean to yell at you, but the sheer nerve of that self-important bast--" He catches himself again. "I swear, if he tries that know-it-all attitude on me just one more time, I'll drop-kick him out of the nearest airlock."

"You do not mean that."

"Try me," he replies, miming the action with his right foot. "Pow!"

"Geordi--"

"Fine, Data. I won't space him. Too much evidence left behind. Now a phaser on disintegrate, that's definitely the way to go."

"You cannot seriously be contemplating murder."

"Oh, yes I am!" Then Geordi's smile fades. "Aw, hell. As much as I hate to admit it, Maddox is right about the equipment, and yes, he knows more about you than I do. It's just... well, I'd feel a whole better about this if I could go with you tomorrow."

Sudden warmth floods through me as I gaze at Geordi. It is the best feeling I have experienced thus far. I wish I could tell him the difference that having full emotions has already made, even in eight short days, but I have been unable to articulate it clearly. I think the closest I have come was when I showed the counselor the old Earth movie that Dr. Graves mentioned to me. Early in the film, a stark monochromatic scene suddenly transforms into dazzlingly vivid color. Gaining emotion has been like that for me.

I notice that Geordi is biting his lip, evidently still experiencing anxiety over my impending transfer. "Do not worry, Geordi. It will be all right."

"Huh," he scoffs. "You just make sure Harkins is always there when Maddox is around you. And don't let him work on you until I'm there. No matter what so-called emergency comes up." He shakes his finger at me for emphasis. "You better listen to me on this, Data."

Spot leaps suddenly into my lap, purring as she runs her head against my chin. Setting aside the cup of hot chocolate, I drop a kiss on her head and scratch behind her ear. I notice again how much warmer and softer her fur seems, though the observation defies rational explanation. 

"I will take the necessary precautions." Still scratching Spot, I gaze at my best friend and smile reassuringly. "I promise."

"Okay then." Apparently mollified, Geordi rises from his chair. "Look, I've got to get back to work." He grins at me. "I'm going to be at Daystrom before you know it. This is going to be the fastest salvage operation anybody's ever seen."

After a quick final caress, I put Spot down. "I also have duties to which I must attend. Will you have time to play poker tonight? I have a number of credits to win back from Commander Riker."

"You and me both, buddy," Geordi says. "See you later."


	4. Geordi

The poker game ran later than I'd expected. Lady Luck had favored me early on, but then she deserted me utterly. Again. Riker swept up the big pile of chips and thanked us all for financing his upcoming shore leave.

 _Oh, well. At least Data lost more credits than me_ , I console myself, as I flop down on the comfortable, standard-issue couch in my temporary quarters.

Thinking of Data brings the whole crappy Maddox situation back into mind. Glancing at the padd over on the table, I reconsider the plan to wait until morning to give it to the cyberneticist. Surely there will be plenty of time to do a quick run-through on the diagnostic results before they light out for the Galor system, and of course Data can address anything that needs more attention. Yeah, morning is soon enough. 

Fact is, I don't really want to give Maddox the padd at all. But I have to -- no matter what I think of that slimeball, Data has chosen to go with him to Daystrom. So whether I like it or not, I have to work with the man for Data's sake. Plus there is the off chance that Data's fused-in emotion chip might act up again. Having ready access to the diagnostic results might be crucial. 

_Well_ , I finally decide, _it's almost midnight... why not get that jerk out of the rack?_ Immature, yeah, but I couldn't quite give up a last tiny revenge before having to bury the hatchet.

Unfortunately, when I get to his quarters, Maddox answers the chime almost immediately. His smile turns sour. "Mr. La Forge."

I can tell you, while I was disappointed that I hadn't woken Maddox up, I wasn't anywhere near as disappointed as he was. "Good evening to you too, sir. Expecting someone else?"

"No. What do you want?" His voice is even chillier and I know I'm right. He _had_ been hoping it would be Data at the door.

 _Fucking weasel_ , I think with a sudden burst of anger. He just can't wait to get his slimy paws on Data.

Then I remind myself why I'd come, and force a smile. "Commander Maddox, I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes." _There, that came out civil_ , I think, pretty proud of myself.

He sniffs, "About what?"

"Look, we're going to have to get along. We might as well start now." I force another smile. "Can I come in?"

Maddox draws himself up haughtily. "Let's get one thing straight, La Forge. Data's wellbeing is my only concern. You only interest me insofar as you can contribute to that. Which is to say, hardly at all."

Gritting my teeth -- where's a damn airlock when you need it? -- I hold up the padd. "I have some diagnostics you ought to look at."

He practically tears the padd out of my hand, and heads over to the cluttered computer desk. I follow him in, invited or not.

There's sophisticated equipment all over, including what has to be some kind of custom positronic interface unit with its guts spread out. Maddox has more fancy toys than a spoiled kid at winter holiday, and some of them I don't even recognize. 

Figuring he'll be wrapped up in the diagnostics for a while, I pick up one of the unfamiliar little gadgets and start a quick spectroanalysis.

"Don't touch that!" Maddox snatches at it, but instead knocks it out of my hand. It clatters on the tabletop, then falls to the carpet. "Now look what you've done!"

"Sorry." I bite the inside of my lip as he frantically checks it over. It's not really funny; I don't tolerate careless handling of sensitive equipment myself, but the way he's fussing over the, well, whatever it is, is ridiculous. The device has to be sturdy enough to handle such a negligible impact or it would be too fragile to stand up to normal usage.

Finally Maddox seems satisfied. "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, La Forge. Some of this equipment is delicate."

"Right. Because I don't know anything about delicate, seeing as how I only work with antimatter and all."

Too bad; he misses the sarcasm because he's already lost in the padd again. When he walks absently over to the living area, I tag along since it's obvious he doesn't have the manners to ask me to join him. I stop at the replicator for a glass of water, then take a seat.

Finally, after much muttering, Maddox looks up from the padd. " _This_ is all that you have? Where are the pre- and post-installation scans? The comparative analyses?"

I just stare at him in disbelief. Where the hell does he think they are?

"Oh, for god's sake, you did _keep_ records?"

"Of course I did," I reply with all the patience I can muster. "They're in the _Enterprise_ 's computer."

"Well, I need them," he announces, as if that makes all the difference. 

"You do understand that the core's severely damaged? That it's going to be a while before we can get anything out of it?"

"That's completely unacceptable!"

My VISOR's infrared overlay shifts; his facial temp is going up, mirroring a rapid rise in blood pressure. 

"Like it or not, that's the way things are. We'll have to fall back on these diagnostics and whatever Data sent you after we fixed the chip."

" _Damn_ you, La Forge! This is all your fault," Maddox snarls and jumps to his feet like he thinks he's going to do something. "You had to know the chip might overload his net and you installed it anyway, never mind what might happen to Data! You have the nerve to call yourself his friend, you incompetent son of a bitch!"

I'm on my feet too, not the least bit intimidated. "Now you wait a minute. Where do you get off thinking it's all my fault? Data knew the risks and he made the decision."

"You blame Data? When _you_ should have insisted that testing be done under controlled conditions? When _you_ should have informed the captain that Data wasn't fit for an away mission? When YOU should have noticed RIGHT AWAY THAT SOMETHING WAS GOING WRONG?"

I can't get a word in edgewise. Realizing that if I don't leave right now, I'll do something I'll regret -- although he'll regret it a lot more -- I turn my back and walk out.

As I head back to my quarters. I consciously unclench my fists. Much as I'd like to knock Maddox's teeth down his throat, he isn't worth it. The whole episode just confirms the opinion I'd had all along: Maddox is one of Research's pampered little prima donnas, complete with temper tantrums. All theory and no practical application. Even worse, the kind that buckles at the first sign of pressure.

 _He'd never last a week in the real fleet_ , I think with disgust as the turbolift deposits me on my deck.

Not only will I have to put up with that piece of shit for Data's sake, it's going to cost me weeks I could be spending at Utopia Planetia. Weeks that I could be building a relationship with Leah. I grit my teeth at the thought. If I lose my chance with her over this... damn Maddox to hell!

But I don't have any other choice. Data's safety comes first. 

_'You have my word of honor', my ass!_ I think furiously as I slap the palm lock to my temporary quarters. Maddox _is_ hiding something, and Data's too naive and trusting to see it. I'd bet my life on it.

Except it's not my life that's at risk, is it?

I console myself that until I can go to Daystrom, Harkins will be there to safeguard Data every step of the way. After the earful I gave the ensign earlier this evening, I know he will make damned sure that Maddox doesn't so much as _think_ of laying a finger on Data.


	5. Bruce

By late evening, ship's time, we'd been traveling almost fifteen hours. Unfortunately the _Daystrom-3_ isn't very fast; warp four is the best the little runabout can make. That left us more than six days' travel through what has to be the most unremarkable sector in the quadrant.

Not that I had had time to be bored. The morning's first order of business had been running an extensive series of tests on Data, all the way down to the subpolymer level. The ensign had resisted the idea of testing rather strenuously. Trying to defuse the situation, Data mentioned that La Forge had performed many of the same diagnostics. While I limited myself to remarking that I preferred to run my own diagnostics, I wasn't taking some ensign's no for an answer.

While I laid out the test equipment and explained my plans, Harkins' suspicious brown eyes had followed my every move. When we were ready to begin, I was appalled to discover the lanky blond barely knew how to open Data's cranial ports -- this ignorant _child_ was what La Forge had sent me? I could scarcely move for the way he crowded me. And the incessant questions! If Data hadn't taken over answering in his amazingly patient way, the boy would have driven me mad with distraction. 

Rather than rip the ensign's head off, I stalked off to the galley to cool off over coffee. It's La Forge's doing, I know, but I can make it serve my purposes. It's painfully obvious Harkins has only the faintest grasp of the basics, but the less the boy knows, the fewer of La Forge's sloppy habits I'll have to break. 

When we begin again, I have Harkins complete the hookups and initiate the tests. Under my close scrutiny, of course, but it's best that he be the one to touch Data, all things considered. Afterwards, I download study materials and schematics, and send Harkins toddling off with a paddful of assignments. Data takes the helm, while I pore over the test results.

By mid-afternoon, I still haven't come up with any reason for the chip to have overloaded. _There has to be an explanation_ , I tell myself firmly, _and you've got to find it before something happens to Data._

Slugging down the rest of my coffee, I pick up the padd and run through the readouts for what has to be the dozenth time.

Still no clues.

I rub my burning eyes and start again.

*****

After an early dinner, we sit in the galley and talk for better than an hour. Data and I do, anyway. It only takes a few minutes before the blond ensign flees to his cabin, citing his upcoming midshift on the helm. 

That was reason enough, but I think what Harkins really wanted was to escape what must've been, for him, an excruciatingly arcane discussion of my last paper, the one on addressing the difficulties of efficient submolecular-level manipulation during bulk neurofilament manufacture.

Data and I kick around ideas and their implications, and it's a rare joy to be with someone who can keep up their end of the conversation and more besides. But all too soon, he excuses himself to go check on the helm. I stay in the galley to jot down my thoughts. My mind swirls with Data's beautiful ideas and insights. 

Some time later, I jolt awake. Realizing I've dozed off, I make a mental note to review my work. I might have missed something Data said; better to leave the review until the morning. 

I ask the computer for the time. It's only 2115, but it might as well be zero-dark-thirty of the day after next, if the way I feel is any gauge. I haven't gotten a solid night's sleep since finding out about Data's overloaded chip. I keep dreaming that he's cascading and I'm trying frantically to stop it. But I'm too damned slow, too damned stupid, and he looks up at me, begging with his eyes. Then Data dies, right in my hands.

Pushing the nightmare away, I get a refill on coffee: going to sleep anytime soon will only ensure a rerun. Instead I head up to the helm so I can check on Data. I have to admit, he does seem perfectly fine, and the tests haven't shown any warning signs for cascade.

Too tired to do anything useful, I'm content to simply lean back in the co-pilot's chair and study Data. It's fascinating to contrast the wonderful economy of his motions with the occasional little flourishes of his fingers as he works on the computer; enthralling to watch the subtle play of beautifully sculpted shoulder and arm 'muscles' when he reaches for a control.

To me, Data is a miracle. I could never get tired of looking at him.

Eventually Data says, "You are staring at me."

I have to suppress a laugh. He's always so direct. I used to think it annoying, but I've come to find it quite endearing. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just mentally comparing your facial expressions and movements with the way you were when we first met. I can stop."

"On the contrary, I would like you to elaborate." Data's head tilts in that delightfully inquisitive manner. It's always curiosity with him.

"All right." I sit up straighter. "Your biomimicry has improved substantially. For example, you move your head very smoothly now. In fact, all of your gestures and mannerisms are much more fluid. Then there's the increased ease and inflection of your speech. You don't say things like "Inquiry?" or "Processing" any more. Tell me, is it deliberate or did the changes occur on their own?"

His face is such a perfect study in perplexity that then I do chuckle. "Like that, Data. Did you practice that expression or did it come naturally?"

He freezes and I can tell he is assessing the status of his facial servos. After a moment, Data says, "Although there was a time when I deliberately copied the expressions of others, that was not one that I practiced." His face relaxes, then turns hopeful. "Was it convincing?"

"Absolutely," I reassure. "There are very few things you do now that look mechanical any more. I would say the most noticeable is the way your eyes still go flat when you're searching your memory banks or performing complex computations. Also, your eye and head motion are slightly jerky then. But even that's far less than it was."

I take a sip of my coffee, and frown at the tepid dregs. "I need more coffee. Would you care for something?"

" _Raktajino_ , please."

"I've never heard of that."

"It is a traditional Klingon coffee blended with _ra'taj_ liqueur. It is served iced or steamed. Perhaps you would like it."

"No, thank you," I say firmly. It's been many years, but I'll never forget how Klingons butchered my brother Brett and his away team. I wouldn't touch a Klingon beverage if I was dying of thirst. "Besides, I don't think the replicator will know it."

"That is not a problem. I programmed it earlier, along with Spot's meals."

Wrinkling my nose in apprehension, I order our drinks from the replicator. When Data's glass mug materializes -- amazingly enough, without tentacles or bugs -- the spicy aroma is a pleasant surprise. It's the first Klingon specialty that hasn't made me instantly want to vomit.

After I sit back down, I notice the way Data is blowing on the steaming drink to cool it. He doesn't need to; it's another emulation. It's wonderful. 

"You know, Data," I muse, "there was a time not too long ago when you would have reminded me that you don't require sustenance, instead of getting something. And you had lunch with us. That's very nice socialization."

He smiles into his _raktajino_ at that, a small but nonetheless dazzling smile. 

"It's hard to see specific changes over the short term, but over time the accumulated improvement is very noticeable. Other people probably take it for granted, but it fascinates me. Over the past thirty years, I've probably spent thousands of hours watching holorecords of you. Especially the early holos."

Then I realize this is the perfect lead-in. Though I've apologized to Data many times over the last six years, I've never really tried to explain. The fact is, I've never had the guts to own up to what I did. But I owe him that, and I had sworn I would find a way on this trip.

So I take a deep breath, and take the plunge. "Can I tell you something?"

"Certainly."

"Data, back then your artificial nature was instantly obvious to anyone. No one could possibly have mistaken you for a biological life form."

When he opens his mouth, I say quickly, "Please, could I finish?" My stomach is already tight and unsettled. 

"I don't mean because of your skin or your eyes. It was the way you spoke, the way you moved, the linearity and literalness of your thoughts. _Everything_ about you shouted machine, especially to someone with my background.

"I was in my last year at the academy when the _Tripoli_ found you. Everyone in the robotics track was so excited. Suddenly there was a real android, not just 70 year old mission logs and dull Norman and Trudy mockups. When I received orders to Daystrom robotics after grad school, I was thrilled -- I'd finally have a chance to get a peek at your programming and construction for myself.

"Then they told me you had applied to Starfleet Academy. I couldn't fathom why anyone would even consider admitting a machine. I mean, the absurdity was patently obvious to all of us in the Robotics division."

I study the faint wisps of steam rising from my coffee. "I suppose that's why they didn't bother to send someone with experience. Instead they sent a 23 year old idiot to sit on the admissions committee: the self-important boy wonder fresh out of grad school, puffed up by the praise and awards and all the great things expected of me."

"Commander Maddox," Data says softly, "You do not have to do this."

"Data, I _do_ ," I say earnestly, holding his gaze. "Please. It's very important to me that you know how it happened."

He nods and I go on. "I was completely appalled by the admissions committee's emotionalism," I explain. "I told them that while you were wonderfully sophisticated relative to Federation capabilities, you weren't very advanced when compared to androids created by alien technology. Some of those were said to be virtually indistinguishable from real human beings."

"The Exo III androids," Data comments. "According to the mission logs, only the duplicate Captain Kirk's uncharacteristic verbal attack aroused Commander Spock's suspicions. I have often wondered how long the duplicate could have escaped detection had Spock not returned to the planet."

I shrug. "Not long. Either an injury like Korby's torn synthskin or a cursory scan would have revealed the truth."

"Is it not possible that an android could be equipped to present false bio-signals?"

The idea isn't new. The concept of evil robot infiltrators has been around for centuries. It had been used in no few of the science fiction stories I'd devoured as a boy, along with dire robot-as-enemy tales. I had always loved the robot-as-servant-and-protector stories, but best of all were the ones about robots that miraculously came to life. Like Data.

"You find the idea amusing?"

I realize too late that I'm grinning stupidly. "No, no, it's not that. To get back to your question, no, I don't see why it couldn't be done. It wouldn't be easy, particularly the shielding and getting the mass and its distribution correct, not to mention plausibly dealing with nontrivial injury. Still, it's certainly nowhere near as difficult as developing a sentient brain. Without that, why would anyone even bother developing a faux-human body?"

Data merely nods, so I return to my previous line of thought. "Now, Flint's Rayna was more sophisticated than the Exo androids, but the point I made to the admissions committee was that none of those androids were ever considered to be real, to be _people_ , once their nature was known.

"Data, your case was simple in comparison, yet the committee members wouldn't listen. I thought they were sentimental fools." The familiar self-disgust rises in my throat and my voice gets thick with emotion. "But I was the fool."

As my eyes begin to prickle warningly, I look away, even more ashamed of myself. Data politely turns back to his console. I hear the soft beeps as he works. 

To calm myself, I think of his hands, visualizing his elegant fingers dancing nimbly over the controls. I run through the familiar, complex interactions required for such fine motor control, mentally tracing the pathways the signals would take in traveling from his wondrous brain to his fingers and back.

"Data?" I say finally. He glances over and I clear my throat. "You know after that, I dedicated my life to you." Too close, that, so I quickly rephrase, "I mean, to studying you. To recreating the technology that made you possible, and providing that technology to the rest of the fleet."

He nods so I continue, "Before I knew it, more than twenty years had gone by, and I still couldn't make the crucial leaps. I was past forty, staring forty-five in the face, and my research was going nowhere. Then I got the news about Lore."

I close my eyes, remembering how livid I'd been. "I could've killed the Crusher boy myself. If only he'd had the sense to beam Lore to the brig!"

"The situation was somewhat chaotic."

"Well, yes, of course I realized that once I had a chance to look at the security footage. But at the time, all I could think about was how much I needed Lore. Now HQ was not only demanding androids, they were demanding assurances that my androids wouldn't turn out like Lore. But he was gone, presumed dead, so I argued that you should be assigned to me. That using your brain as a model would be the best way to avoid creating flawed brains. At that point, no one was willing to listen."

I realize that the smell of Data's _raktajino_ might make me throw up anyway. Goddamn Klingons and their slop.

But having started this, I need to finish it. "When there was a string of near disastrous missions -- Velara, Minos, Vandor -- I argued again that your assignment to the _Enterprise_ was too dangerous. Still nothing, so after that nasty business with that Nagilum entity, I thought about asking my father to throw some weight around. At the time, it seemed completely justifiable to use Dad for leverage, especially since things were heating up with the Romulans and what turned out to be the Borg attacking our outposts." 

Data doesn't react negatively, as I had feared. Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow. "Your father?"

"Oh. Sorry. Dad's with Starfleet Intell. Flag officer, actually." How asinine of me to have assumed Data would ever bother to review my personnel file. He doesn't care about my personal life. Why would he? 

"Ah. Vice Admiral William Stephen Maddox. I had not realized the familial relationship."

"Yes. The Maddoxes are a fleet family. Six generations." 

I had made certain there'd be no seventh: I wanted my son free of the suffocating expectations, so I had insisted to my then-wife Diya that Mihir bear her surname. But Mihir had followed us into the service anyway, only to have the defenseless scientific vessel he was travelling on used as cannon fodder at Wolf 359. 

"The point is," I continue after a moment to let the wave of grief pass, "a lot of people owed my father. A lot of very highly placed people, Data, if you take my meaning. That fiasco with Ira Graves was the final straw. I called Dad. He called in a few favors. And then I had your orders in hand."

Admitting that's bad enough, but now come the worst parts. I clasp my shaking hands together and force out, "But back then it was never really about you, Data, never about protecting you. It was always about _using_ you to get me where I wanted to be. To get me where I wasn't good enough to get on my own.

"But I told myself it was worth it. Your skills, your computational abilities, your sheer genius have directly led to the survival of your ship and crew, time and time again. Countless Federation citizens -- over fifteen thousand on Tau Cygna V alone -- owe their lives to you.

"Giving every ship its own Data would give every captain that same incredible advantage. Countless more lives would be saved. And I was determined to be the one that would make all that possible."

I can't look at him any more. "So you see, I had to duplicate you. I _had_ to. But it wasn't just for the fleet, not just to save so many precious lives. Part of it was for _myself_. Because if I couldn't deliver on my promises, that meant my father had been right all along, that I was wasting my life playing with robots when instead I should have been a proper Maddox, serving on the front lines."

Slowly I lift my guilty eyes to his. I had thought that surely this would earn Data's disgust, yet somehow Data's gaze remains nonjudgmental. I don't understand it, but it definitely makes it easier to go on.

"At the hearing, I thought Captain Picard's arguments were the same anthropomorphic, emotional nonsense all over again. That he couldn't see that your behavior was nothing more than deliberate mimicry -- nothing more than sophisticated programming. It was so frustrating. Earlier, Captain Louvois had asked me if you were property. I told her that of course you were."

I lean towards Data, needing him to understand. "By then I'd spent years -- _decades_ \-- analyzing your software and hardware. Hell, I'd written half a dozen AIs that had passed for human for extended periods of time. The point is, every bit of my experience told me that you were nothing more than a machine imitating life."

Data's head tilts as he considers what I'd said. His lips part, just a little.

"Ohhh," I breathe, entranced despite myself. "I know how you do that. I mean, I know exactly where all those little subroutines are... all the inputs, all the parameters... I can pinpoint every subprocessor module involved. I can trace every signal to each of the hundreds of tiny servos in your face. Your lips." 

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and I manage, "I know that, too."

"Ah," Data nods slowly. "I do see."

"Occam's razor?"

"Indeed."

Picking up my coffee cup again, I rub a thumb against its smooth side. "So you can see I felt there was no need for fantastic assertions about sentience. Of course, I didn't understand all of Soong's work, but I thought... well, in time, I thought I would."

"I am sure that you will," Data says encouragingly. 

Oh, it hurts that he felt the need to say that, but I manage a smile. I think.

"You know," I say after a moment to recover, "while Riker's logic didn't follow the path I would have chosen, I did think he proved my point admirably. Shutting you down was brilliant. I fully expected to come back from recess and have the hearing concluded in short order. But then Captain Picard started in with the things you'd packed. The medals, the book... they were surprising enough."

I deliberately drop my gaze. "But then there was the holocube. I was... well, completely shocked by your relationship with Lieutenant Yar. Of course, I had known you were constructed in the form of a male, but..."

My voice trails off. I had meant to breeze by the topic, but my traitorous mind instantly fills with thoughts of Data pinning me to his bed, staring down intently while I lay waiting, quivering with anticipation. Then suddenly, irresistibly, Data would force his tongue in my mouth, his heavy form pressing my helpless body down...

I blush furiously but fortunately Data is sipping his _raktajino_ and appears not to notice. I shift uncomfortably, crossing my legs to hide my wretched excitement. "I.. I'm sorry, Data. I shouldn't have said anything."

He carefully sets his mug aside and turns his attention to the panel before him. "Please do not apologize. I am aware that humans do not think of me as a sexual being. Indeed, I believe most would find it unpleasant to contemplate."

He sounds so resigned that my heart instantly aches. "That's not what I meant! You're very... I mean, I would love to... I mean, not... not _me_! Anybody! Anybody would want to--"

He turns those incredible golden eyes on me and suddenly the runabout seems much, much warmer.

_Oh, shit. Shit shit shit._

"I, I mean... it was only the suddenness that startled me." I desperately try to think of a way to extricate myself without further self-incrimination. Sweat rolls down between my shoulderblades. "What I mean is that the way you handled it was a far bigger shock than the fact that you..."

I take a shaky breath and start again. "Data, what I'm trying to say it was the most human thing I'd ever seen you do."

That distracts him from my reaction, thank heavens. Data's head jerks infinitesimally. 

"I do not understand."

I pretend to be thinking how best to answer, but I take the chance to surreptitiously wipe the sweat from my face. "You were so considerate of the lieutenant's wishes. I'm so sorry she died, Data. She must have cared very deeply for--"

Breaking off when Data's face turns stony, I ask cautiously, "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, sir."

I regard him uncertainly, wondering how I'd erred this time.

"Please continue."

Reluctantly I push on, keeping a watchful eye on his expression. "For a moment, I didn't understand your reaction, but then I realized that Dr. Soong would naturally have programmed in discretion in sexual matters. And I told myself that the fact that a human chose to have sex with you meant nothing; some people apparently think nothing of having sex with holograms or sexbots. Problem solved.

"Then Picard started going on about my androids becoming a race. I thought he was crazy. Nobody thinks about a race of ships, or holograms, or any advanced tool. And after all, Starfleet _needs_ androids, right?"

Data's eyebrows knit together in adorable confusion. "Yet the ruling has made that virtually impossible."

"Exactly. Believe me, Research was not pleased with Louvois' ruling, or with me. Daystrom HQ and the cybernetics community, either. It certainly didn't help that I had defected to your camp, or that I couldn't objectively justify my belief in your sentience any better than Picard had, with his theoretical degrees of consciousness." 

"That was why you were recalled to Galor IV? I had thought it odd that your facility would be relocated so soon after its establishment."

"I didn't care about that," I say fiercely. The disgrace had been nothing compared to the horror of what I'd nearly done. "What was important was _you_ , Data. If Picard hadn't stopped me, my blindness might've destroyed the most miraculous being in the universe."

"While I know it is polite to accept a compliment gracefully, I hardly believe that your description is accurate."

I look him in the eye, wishing with all my heart that he will see my sincerity. "It's the only possible way to describe you, Data. I know there's no way I can ever really make up for what I did, but I swear to you that I will spend the rest of my life trying."

Oh, great. I sound sickeningly maudlin even to myself.

Data opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it firmly. I can tell he's completely at a loss, and I feel more the fool than ever. The silence stretches out as we gaze uncomfortably at each other.

So I fake a smile, hoping that an attempt to lighten things won't go too far awry. "Actually, it's just that I'd hate to be in history books only because I'm a damned idiot. I'll go down as 'Always-Wrong Maddox' if I don't do something fast."

That does it; Data actually chuckles before turning back to the nav console. "In that case, I will endeavor to reduce our travel time to Galor IV." He gives me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

I grin back, suddenly giddy with relief for myself and happiness for Data. The emotion chip has given him the sense of humor he's wanted for so long.

Though I would dearly love to spend more time with Data, I'm unwilling to chance spoiling the evening by saying something stupid. Besides, it's my turn on the helm in the morning, and if I don't get some sleep, I'm not going to be worth a damn.

I quickly finish up my coffee and get to my feet. "I'd better get to bed. Good night, Data. Thanks so much for letting me get all that off my chest."

He spins in the pilot's chair, smiling that little smile. "Good night, sir."

Leaving Data at the helm, his nimble fingers skimming rapidly over the control pad, I make my way back to my small cabin. I'm sweaty and emotionally drained, but I also feel elated. I've finally confessed to Data and it had gone far better than I ever imagined, even with my gaffes.

As I toe off my boots, I debate whether I should take the risk of confiding everything to Data. Maybe he'll believe me. Maybe.

If he doesn't... well, if he doesn't, he'll call in Starfleet Security, and any evidence will vanish before a preliminary investigating officer is even appointed. I'll get a quick court-martial for unauthorized entry into highly classified systems, and spend a decade or two at the penal colony in New Zealand. Or if Haftel can quash the legal proceedings, my breakdown last year will get leaked after he makes sure all evidence of his role in the cover up is eliminated. My ever so regrettable relapse will land me back on the psych ward, this time no doubt indefinitely. 

_Scylla and Charybdis_ , I think, remembering the hellish months I'd spent in the ward a year ago. Then I recall what Odysseus had faced just before the twin perils, and let out a little snort of laughter. _I suppose that makes Data my very own Siren._

The hell with listening to my impulses, then. Best to bind myself tightly to the mast; best to avoid Data and suppress the urge to confide my suspicions to him. Definitely best to wait until I have proof in hand.

Stripping off the rest of my sweaty uniform, I toss it in the slot before going into the tiny head for a quick sonic before sleep.


	6. Bruce

I feel Data's intoxicating weight on my back, pressing me into the bunk, steely hands pinning my wrists. Fiery kisses blaze across my bare shoulder, up my neck and onto my ear. Then he roughly pushes a thigh between mine and...

I force myself awake, too late; the blood is already pounding hotly through my greedy body. Cursing, I fling myself out of bed and onto the deck for pushups, planks and crunches. I add mountain climbers for good measure, then push through another two rounds. I hate being betrayed by my own damned body, by my guilty and pathetically transparent subconscious.

After the workout, it's all I can do to drag myself in for another sonic. Leaning against the cool wall, I catch my breath for a minute, then tune the sonics to maximum intensity, hoping to pound away the soreness and tension.

After a few minutes, I can tell it's pointless. I'm going to be sore as hell. What I really need is a long, hot water shower, but runabouts are far too small to be equipped with dual-function units.

 _I wonder if Data likes water showers._ The thought slips in before I can help it. I don't want to think about it, but the vision of Data naked amidst clouds of steam keeps insinuating its way back into my mind. I can see it so clearly -- his head tipped back into the downpour; slim, masculine arms raised, sleek muscles outlined in perfectly sculpted shoulders. I can see those long, elegant fingers combing through his dark hair, his neck exposed and graceful... rivulets of water snaking down his smooth golden chest, running down the planes of his abdomen, dripping off the tip of his beautiful cock.

Despite the deliberately punishing workout, I'm achingly hard again and this time my resolve is nothing compared to my body's demands. Sagging back against the shower wall, I stroke myself and envision Data making me kneel. I imagine his hands tangling possessively in my hair as he roughly uses my mouth for his pleasure. 

Sinking to my knees, I slide my hand faster and faster. I close my eyes and shove two fingers in my mouth, sucking them hard. I imagine his face contorted with pleasure as he reaches down to squeeze his heavy balls with one hand. Oh yes, I'd lick right along the sensor-dense ridge on the underside of his magnificent cock, and then I'd teasingly wiggle the tip of my tongue under the edge of his foreskin. Then deeper into his oozing slit, getting a tantalizing taste before he jams himself deeper. He face-fucks me so hard I have to hold onto his perfect thighs for support. Then he groans with pleasure and fills my mouth.

The next thing I know, I'm collapsed against the shower wall, with a mess all over. Feeling even guiltier, not to mention totally disgusted with myself, I quickly clean up and get out of there.

I decide that the proximity to Data has to be what's causing my problem. I haven't had a lapse like that in months. Not during waking hours, at least. The dreams have been a frequent torment, but I've been getting in enough kilometers in the pool or on the track so that I'm usually too exhausted to dream. Usually. When I can wake up in time, a deck workout generally takes care of the issue. If even that didn't help -- well, planetside, I could always get a cold water shower. 

No such luck on this stupid runabout. I angrily stuff my towel into the refresher slot. It's just past 0400 and I feel as if I haven't slept at all. I consider going back to bed, but I really don't think I can get to sleep again. Besides, it's more important that I get my head back on straight. This absolutely cannot happen again.

I fold the bunk back up and get dressed, wincing at the soreness in my lower back and shoulders. In the galley, I get some coffee, in dire need of its familiar lift and comfort. Harkins swings around in the pilot's chair, looking surprised to see me at such an early hour. I nod briefly, but I'm not up to being sociable.

Cradling the cup's warmth, I go back to my cabin and slump into the chair by the tiny console. Staring into my coffee, I curse myself roundly for being weak and stupid enough to get into this mess with Data.

But I know my counselor would tell me it's counterproductive to keep rehashing my constant failures. So I push all of it out out of mind: my marital fuckups, my inappropriate desires, my mental breakdown, countless cascaded brains... none of it matters any more. It can't. Now, of all times, I _have_ to stay focused. Data's life is at stake. I simply cannot allow myself to be so easily distracted.

 _Or so easily manipulated_ , I remind myself sternly. I have to give Haftel a lot of credit: the devious old bastard had played me expertly. He'd had me in such a panic -- rushing around, snatching up tools and equipment, gathering parts for the computer interface -- that it wasn't until I was well on my way to the starbase that I started to think things through. 

Although it's true that Data needs repairs, the kind that he can get only with highly specialized equipment, the annex doesn't exactly seem like a safe place for him. Not that I think Haftel would be stupid enough to try anything overt, but it's not a risk I'm willing to take. That's what made me think of taking La Forge. He's perfect. He'll keep Data safe from Haftel, and me safe from myself.

As I get up and head to the galley for more coffee, the irony of La Forge as my unwitting ally strikes me. I decide to comm him before we get out of range, just to make sure my new best friend is properly motivated to hurry.


	7. Geordi

The insistent beeping startles me awake. Groggily I slip on my VISOR and sit up. "La Forge here."

"Sir, you have a priority call from Commander Maddox of the Daystrom Technological Institute."

Stricken with sudden fear -- had something happened to Data? -- I hurry to the console. "Patch it through, please."

One glance at Maddox's sleazy grin and I knew that wasn't it.

"Well, good morning, Mr. La Forge." He looks me over disdainfully, as if to emphasize the contrast between his perfect uniform and my rumpled sleepwear. "And here I thought I'd have a hard time catching you because you'd already be on your way to Veridian."

_Eat dilithium and die, asshole,_ I think, but what I say is, "Good morning, sir. How's Data?"

"Oh, he's just fine for now. No thanks to you."

I bite back a nasty reply; he's senior to me and besides, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I assume there's some reason you called?"

"Why, yes. I ran some scans yesterday and getting that chip out intact is going to be a major effort. I want all the records and scans relating to the work you did on it, and I want them now."

"I told you before you left that it's going to take a few days. The amount of damage to the computer core-"

"I don't want to hear any more bullshit excuses about why you can't do your job, La Forge. Just get me the damn files."

Suspicion about why he wants them so badly is taking shape. "Are you planning on starting work on Data's chip? That's not what Captain Picard agreed to."

"I'm _planning_ on trying to make sense of your damned mess, so I'm prepared if there's an emergency." He looks at me with that slimy, calculating expression. "Besides, with the way you're dawdling, who knows how long it's going to be before you get to the annex? Almost anything could happen to Data."

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" I keep my voice level, but I'm getting real pissed real fast.

"It means I don't like having an unstable component fused into Data's net! You seem to think it's perfectly okay to leave him in danger while you laze about." Maddox leans back in his chair. "Frankly, I'm appalled by the delay. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised it's taking you so long. It must be so difficult without having Data around to do everything for you."

Before I can think of a reply that doesn't contain half a dozen epithets, he smirks again. "Well, Mr. La Forge, much as I'd like to spend all day chatting, some of us have work to do. Maddox out."

*****

Two hours later, I'm still steaming mad. I'd reworked the schedule again and again, and only managed to shave off thirty-four hours. I'd just flung the padd against the wall when the door chimed. I stomp over and open it.

Deanna's there, eyebrows lifted. "May I come in?"

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter.

Noticing the padd, Deanna picks it up off the floor. "What's the matter?"

I snatch the padd back and jab my finger at the salvage schedule. " _That's_ what's the matter! I have to wait twenty-nine days before I shove my foot up Maddox's ass! And don't even try to talk me out of it!"

She doesn't, surprisingly enough. After I vent for a while, I feel a little better. 

Artist: [drawsmaddy](https://drawsmaddy.tumblr.com/) Please don't repost.

Or at least, I was, until she says, "Don't you think you might be reading a little too much into his remarks? I'm positive Commander Maddox wouldn't hurt Data under any circumstances."

I stop pacing and stare at her; of course Deanna would never lie about a thing like that, but still... "Maybe he can disguise his emotions or hide them from you somehow."

"No, Geordi. I'm certain that I sensed his true feelings. I promise you, he means Data no harm."

Snapping my fingers, I exclaim, "That's it. Maybe he doesn't mean to hurt Data, but that arrogant bastard figures that whatever _he_ wants is in Data's best interest. We've already seen that. Just look at the way he insisted that dismantling Data wouldn't hurt him."

Deanna frowns, unable to refute my argument, and I say, "I knew it! That bastard _is_ up to something! Well, I'm not going to stand for it!" 

Then it comes to me. "You know what? I'm gonna go see the captain. He can comm Data and make it crystal clear that Maddox _has_ to wait for me before working on the chip, no excuses, none of Maddox's "word of honor" garbage. And I'm gonna talk to Data and Harkins again myself."


	8. Data

At 0618 on the fourth morning of our journey, Spot's yowling rouses me from my dream program. She is on my chest, paw raised, her tail lashing as she glares down accusingly.

"Good morning, Spot. I trust you slept well."

She is in an ill humor and swats my cheek, so I move her aside and rise from the narrow bunk. I straighten the bedding and fold the bunk up against the bulkhead, freeing up space in the tiny cabin. Spot is waiting at the door, meowing loudly, as I enter the small head to shower.

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I turn back momentarily. "Yes, Spot. I understand that you are hungry. However, it was your decision to ignore your dinner." She meows again and I look at her reproachfully. "I will provide your breakfast as soon as I am showered and dressed. You must learn that your decisions have consequences."

When I am ready, I pick up Spot and go out into the main cabin. The ensign is at the helm. I put Spot down and use the replicator to prepare her food and fresh water. I am gratified that Spot begins to consume her breakfast without complaint.

I proceed to the helm to check on ship's status and to make 'small talk' with Ensign Harkins. He has a number of questions for me regarding his studies, so I review each area with him, taking care to discern and clarify any lingering problem areas. 

When we have finished our discussion, I scan the latest missive from Geordi. As I compose a reply to reassure him yet again that I am quite well, I smile fondly to myself. Geordi worries so much about me. I wish he would not, yet it is pleasant to know I am in his thoughts.

Hearing a noise behind me, I glance back. From my position in the co-pilot's seat, I can see into the galley. I notice Commander Maddox is moving very stiffly as he uses the replicator to order toast and the beverage that seems to be his main source of sustenance. So much caffeine is not healthy; I have never understood why Starfleet permits unregulated use of that addictive stimulant, nor why so many humans choose to consume it.

I look more closely. The commander does not look well. Dark circles under his eyes are easily visible, even at my distance. Since the second day of our journey, he has dined alone. Aside from the hours devoted to painstaking review and discussion of the ensign's assignments, the commander has spent nearly all of his off-watch hours in his cabin. Apparently he has not been using that time to rest.

That, along with Commander Maddox's increasing edginess and frosty politeness, concerns me. Until last year, when he abruptly ceased corresponding with me, we had had a cordial, even friendly, long distance working relationship. Given his heartfelt words the first night of our journey, I had hoped to return to that easy camaraderie, but since then our conversations have become increasingly strained. Even my attempts to engage him in technical discussions have foundered almost immediately. I had attributed his standoffishness to his introvert's tendency to get lost in his own thoughts, but now I wonder if there is something else amiss. 

Unaware of my observation, the commander grimaces as he eases down into his chair. He takes a sip of the steaming coffee, then picks listlessly at the toast. He pushes the plate aside and cradles his head in his hands as if it pains him.

I know he does not wish to converse but I feel compelled to ascertain the commander's health status. As I approach the galley table, I note the unhealthy tinge of his skin.

"Sir, are you well?"

His head jerks up. "What?"

I decide to address one problem at a time. "You appear to be in some discomfort. Are you injured?"

The commander frowns. "Just a muscle pull, Mr. Data." He looks away, clearly considering the conversation over.

"Shall I retrieve the medical kit? Such an injury is easily remedied. I could assist-"

"No!" He sighs. "Sorry, Data. I didn't mean to snap at you. Thank you for the concern. I'll be fine."

"Are you certain, sir? It is no trouble at all."

"Quite certain. Thank you."

I sit down opposite him and simply wait.

Finally, Commander Maddox breaks into a small, rueful smile. "Data, you're worse than my mother."

"Curious. Geordi has made a similar remark on several occasions. Evidently fathers are sometimes considered to be less than nurturing. Would you describe yours as such?"

He blinks in surprise. "No, I can't say that 'nurturing' would ever have applied to my father."

I smile and lean forward slightly to indicate my interest, as I have seen others do. "Why is that?"

He hesitates, then evidently decides to humor me. "My father didn't believe in coddling anyone. He said most people are so used to having every scratch fixed right away that they can't deal with pain. I expect it was the intelligence operative in him."

"I see. Did your mother agree with his approach?"

Rolling his eyes in what I surmise is fond remembrance, he says, "If dad was away and we got hurt, mom would use the regen and then lecture us. Usually that was more painful than whatever we'd managed to do to ourselves."

"Ah. Then which would you prefer today -- the injury or the lecture?"

My timing is most unfortunate; the commander had just raised the cup to his lips again. He begins choking, and as he does, the steaming liquid sloshes onto his chest and legs. With a yelp, he leaps to his feet and pulls at his soaked clothing, trying to get the hot fabric away from his skin.

I snatch the napkin from his tray and hurry to assist, but he backs away and shakes his head, still coughing. I hold out the cloth, but he waves me away and heads to his cabin.

I clean up the spilled coffee before recycling the breakfast dishes. As I pick up Spot's empty food dish, I think of the medkit. Doubtless Commander Maddox needs it more than ever. I retrieve it and hasten to his cabin door.

When it slides open, he is at the desk, and rises quickly to his feet. "Oh, uh, Data. I didn't realize it was you. What do you want?"

I hold out the medkit. "I thought you might require this."

Evidently the refresher had not yet completed its cycle; he is only wearing loose sleepshorts. I feel badly about the large patches of reddened skin showing through his sparse dark chest hair. When he notices me looking at him, the commander glances down. Crossing his arms over his chest, he flushes deeply. 

"I am sorry my attempt at levity caused you injury," I say, focusing on his face. Given this reaction and his earlier discomfiture upon mentioning my sexuality, it is apparent that the commander is rather more modest than the average human male. "I did not anticipate your reaction."

"It's, it's, uh, fine, Data. The coffee just went down the wrong pipe, so to speak."

He still has not come forward to take the proffered medkit, so I enter the small cabin, intending only to place it on the desk. He takes a sudden step back and falls over the chair behind him. 

I rapidly move forward and lift him to his feet. He clutches at me. "Sir, are you injured?"

His face goes white and I feel him tremble against me. I quickly wrap my arm more tightly around the commander and reach with the other for the medkit on the desk.

"Data, stop it! Let me go," he cries out and pushes against my chest.

I release him immediately. In an instant he retreats to the furthest corner of the cabin. "I only wished to assist you."

"Don't touch me! Don't ever touch me!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I... did not mean to upset you."

"Oh, Data, no... it's... it's not that, Data. It's not you. Really. I... I just can't stand anyone touching me, that's all." His laugh sounds unusually high-pitched. "Just a odd little quirk of mine, you see? Nothing to do with you at all."

"You appear to be ill," I begin uncertainly. He is breathing rapidly and has a sheen of sweat on his face. "I should scan you."

"No! I'm fine! I just... I just need a minute, all right? So I'd like you to leave. Right now, please."

"Aye, sir." I set down the medkit and withdraw from his cabin.

Once in the galley, I sit down and consider Commander Maddox's increasingly erratic behavior. His claim seems unlikely, as I have never previously observed any sign of chiraptophobia. It is highly improbable that such a neurosis -- indeed, one severe enough to induce that sort of reaction -- had been left untreated, especially in a Starfleet officer.

Or perhaps it is me. Perhaps it is only my touch that the commander finds so distressing. 


	9. Bruce

After the dreadful fiasco in my cabin, I want nothing more than to fall into the nearest sun. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I don't recall being such a complete idiot when I fell head-over-heels for Diya. Or if I was, at least then I had the excuse of being very young.

My padd and my computer both chime, reminding me that I'm due to relieve Ensign Harkins on the helm. I slink out of my cabin, studiously avoiding Data's gaze as I hurriedly replicate a new coffee. When Data offers to take my watch, as tempted as I am to hide for the rest of the trip, I keep my eyes to myself and tell him I'm fine. It comes out more brusquely than I intended, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. Better that he thinks I'm an ill-mannered jerk than the alternative. 

I find it difficult to concentrate on Harkins' turnover briefing; I feel those hurt and confused golden eyes on my back. How could I have overreacted so badly to what was simple kindness on his part? I wish I could think of an explanation that would both reassure Data that he'd done nothing wrong and get him to stay as far away from me as possible. 

I can't think of anything even remotely plausible.

I force my attention back to what Harkins is saying. Same as yesterday -- no other traffic, no interesting natural phenomena, no nothing. As for the coming day, the most exciting event will be passing an uninhabited solar system after lunch. The only remotely interesting thing about the Eldaran system is that the second-innermost planet had once been an idyllic class M, but now it's in the grip of an encroaching ice age.

After turnover, the tall blond boy and I review his progress on his studies. Now that he no longer seems to expect me to sprout horns and a tail, the tension between us has eased. Actually, I've come to like young Harkins a lot. Though a novice, he's enthusiastic and unafraid of work. Unlike most of the students I've taught, he doesn't want or need to be spoon-fed; when I've quizzed him each morning on the previous night's assignments, his answers reveal that he is rapidly developing a good grasp of the material. Better yet, his questions are quite perceptive for a beginner. In time, he might just make a satisfactory assistant. 

When we finish, I follow him back to the galley. After he orders breakfast for himself, I get myself more coffee and head back to the helm. After a glance at the readouts, I cast about for something to keep me occupied. Then I have it. Since the first night's discussion, I've been thinking about Data's ideas on filament manufacturing and I want to work out a way to implement them.

The hours pass quickly. Finally, I put aside my padd; I'm getting nowhere at all. Even with plenty of caffeine, I'm just too tired to think through the intricacies of the problem.

Armed with another cup of coffee, I check the helm readouts again. Nothing, not one damn thing out there, aside from the stupid Eldaran system and its iceball. I prop my chin on my hands and stare out at the distant stars, wishing for a freighter or gaseous cloud or something -- anything -- to break the monotony. I briefly think of asking Data to talk with me, but quickly put that temptation out of mind.

It's near noon when I feel something brush my calf. I look down, startled, but it's only Spot. I had enjoyed surreptitiously watching Data with her during his shift the night before. I'd never imagined Data to be so playful and affectionate.

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Spot sinuously winds herself around my legs, so I pick her up and set her in my lap. I don't have any treats this time but she doesn't seem to mind very much. Spot pushes her head against my hand, in the way that my childhood cat Shadow let me know that he wanted attention. 

As I scratch behind her ears, I think again about how awful the earlier scene in my cabin had been. Data probably thinks I'm a lunatic. What a disaster this trip is turning out to be. I should've known that I can't be so near him without it affecting me badly. Besides the obvious problems during the day, I can barely sleep. Knowing he's just on the other side of the bulkhead is a torment. The only thing I can do is work out and stay awake as long as possible, so that the aches and exhaustion keep me from dreaming when I finally collapse.

I could almost wish I'd never gone to the starbase, never persuaded Data to come with me. But there's his damage and the risk of potential cascade, and it just makes me feel even guiltier for worrying about myself when Data has so much at stake. 

I'm just going to have to redouble my efforts to stay physically and emotionally distant. It's only another few days to the Galor system. I can handle that. I'll go see my doctor first thing and get some heavy duty sleeping pills. And, as much as I hate the side effects, I'll go back on anti-depressants; that'll crater my libido. Surely then I'll be able to cope better.

Satisfied with my plan, I look out the viewscreen. But it's as dull as the turnover briefing led me to expect: nothing of interest shows up on visual or on the scanner. Just for the hell of it, I decide to run a complete set of diagnostics. Spot seems quite content to rest in my lap while I work.

The diagnostic finishes without error and I lean back in my seat, and look at the stars again. I stroke Spot's soft fur while she purrs hypnotically. I can tell I need more coffee and I think about getting up, but Spot is half-asleep and I don't want to disturb her.


	10. Data

After I complete the analysis I had been working on all morning, I decide to take time to play with Spot. After a systematic search of my cabin and the aft compartment yields no results, I proceed to the galley and then move towards the helm.

I call out softly as I approach with caution; I do not wish to startle the commander with my unexpected presence. When he does not react, I take one uneasy step forward, and then another.

Spot is curled up in Commander Maddox's lap. Both are fast asleep. At first I am astonished -- to date, Dr. Crusher and Lieutenant Barclay have been the only people whose proximity Spot finds acceptable -- but then I recall the way Spot hovered near the commander's chair when he ate his solitary meals. I had noticed that she seemed to get an inordinate share and I decide that must be it; Spot has an eye for an 'easy mark'. I make a mental note to have Geordi try to win Spot's favor by plying her with treats.

That small puzzle solved, I take the time to thoroughly check the runabout's status. I do not expect any problems, and I do not find any. A small craft such as this often has to operate without anyone at the helm. The sophisticated autopilot would have sounded an alarm had anything required attention. 

I consider waking the commander, but I am reluctant to chance upsetting him further. He clearly is in need of rest, as well. Given this excellent opportunity to address my growing concerns about his health and suitability for command, I retrieve the medical tricorder and kneel down between the pilot and co-pilot seats.

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The bioscan reveals a number of systemic irregularities symptomatic of physical exhaustion, along with a variety of muscular strains. There are indicators of prolonged stress, including elevated cortisol and low dopamine and serotonin. Unsurprising findings are the caffeine addiction, low blood sugar, dehydration and mild malnutrition. I have noticed his diet is haphazard at best, and his appetite poor.

Unfortunately, the tricorder's beeps disturb Commander Maddox and his eyes flutter half-open. I tense, ready to withdraw instantly should he be distressed by my proximity, but he only smiles sleepily. To my complete surprise, the commander touches my cheek with his fingertips.

"Data," he sighs. "You're here."

Though quite perplexed by his lack of distaste at touching me, I feel warmed by the unexpected welcome. Then I understand. As with my modesty subroutine, it seems the commander's cultural or familial background has similarly ingrained him with a strong taboo against casual nudity. His half-clothed state, in combination with his exhaustion and high-strung temperament, explains his earlier reaction. It is not _me_ that he finds objectionable, I realize with relief.

I place my hand over his. "Yes. I am here."

His eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright, spilling Spot to the floor. She gives an aggrieved meow and darts away.

"Data! What... what..." 

"Everything is all right," I say hastily. "You had fallen asleep. I did not mean to startle you."

His eyes fasten on the tricorder. "What are you doing?"

"I am concerned about your health."

"Dammit, I told you that I'm fine."

"No, sir. You are not. You are suffering from sleep deprivation, stress, and physical exhaustion. I will take the remainder of your shift." He begins to protest, but I cut the discussion short. "This is not a request, Commander Maddox. I will relieve you of command, if need be."

His eyes blaze with anger for a moment, but then he sags with resignation. "I'm sorry, Data. You're right. I haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

"Insomnia is a common side effect of over-consumption of caffeine. You should restrict your intake." 

As we walk back to the galley, I continue, "I recommend you eat before retiring to your quarters. Also, since you have been having difficulty sleeping, a soporific would be beneficial."

"Do you know, that sounds like a good idea." He leans against the galley bulkhead and rubs his forehead. "I'm very sorry about earlier, Data. It's just that I'm so tired."

"I understand," I say gently. "Please sit down. I will get you whatever you would like."

"No, no, I can get it. But thank you." He goes to the replicator. "Grilled swiss cheese on wheat, ham, spicy mustard. Large black co-"

"Commander. You should not have more caffeine."

"What? Oh. Sorry, habit. Um, remove coffee. Add ice water, please." The commander rubs his forehead again.

The autopilot beeps urgently, and I glance towards the helm. "Excuse me, sir, I must-"

There is a sudden, violent jolt and we are flung forward. The commander cries out as he strikes the forward galley bulkhead. I am thrown nearly all the way to the helm.

The lightless runabout pitches and yaws wildly. It fills with thick, acrid smoke in a matter of seconds. Artificial gravity fluctuates, then goes offline. Pulling myself into the pilot's chair, I lock my feet around the base to hold me in the seat. Despite an instant surge of fear through my emotion chip, I am able to fall back upon the systematic approach developed during my years of service as well as numerous training simulations. 

Emergency lighting comes on and my fingers fly across the console. The main computer is down, but fortunately the limited backup computer has activated as designed. Engines are offline, as are life support, navigation, transporters, communications, shields, sensors and nearly every other system. 

"Warning," the backup computer intones. "Microwarp containment breach in three minutes. Warning. Atmospheric toxicity in four-point-six minutes. Warning. Plasma fire detected in engineering compartment. Warning. Fatal radiation exposure in seven minutes."

Paradoxically, it is almost a relief to have so many concurrent emergencies; the magnitude of the situation helps me set aside what the emotion chip is pumping into me. As I reset the automatic fire suppression system, I hear the ensign calling out my name. 

"I am at the helm, stabilizing the ship. Can you come forward?"

I take a moment to peer back into the smoke, though my hands keep working. I sigh in relief when I see the ensign floating towards me. I realize from the way he cradles his right arm that it must be broken.

"What happened?" Harkins coughs.

"I do not know yet. I must first stabilize the warp core containment field. Please ascertain Commander Maddox's condition. Also, you must immediately administer hyronaline. There is a serious radiation leak."

The runabout bucks violently, wringing cries of pain from the ensign as he crashes into the ceiling and then a bulkhead.

"Warning. Microwarp containment breach in ninety seconds."

It does not take me long to get the damaged system back online. I begin to laugh; I had sixty-three-point-one seconds to spare! Hardly a challenge at all. It is almost disappointing. 

I give myself a mental shake: the chip is affecting me. It will not do to give way to hysteria. The emergency is far from over. I turn my attention to the console. Another minute has the air filters back online. The smoke begins to visibly clear. The radiation leak is next. While I cannot completely stop the leak, it slows considerably as the plasma fire is extinguished. 

"Ensign Harkins?" I call, after another bout of violent buffeting finally ceases. "Prepare for gradual return of artificial gravity."

I am still working on the oxygen generators when the ensign slides into the co-pilot's seat. 

"Sir, Commander Maddox is unconscious. He has a head injury and his right leg looks pretty bad."

Hearing a quaver in the ensign's voice, I turn to look at him. His face is badly bruised; his cheek, nose and lip are bleeding freely. Although he is trying to maintain his professionalism, it is clear he is frightened. The best thing I can do for him is to call upon his training and keep him busy. I send him to retrieve the medical kit, while I take a minute to locate the medical tricorder I had been using just before the incident. Fortunately it appears to be undamaged. 

The ensign returns with the kit. After I scan him, I take out the osteoregenerator. The first order of business is his broken forearm. 

"Mr. Harkins, please give me your right arm." I evaluate the deformed limb and gently run my fingers over it. I take the wrist in one hand and his elbow in the other. "Prepare yourself. This will be unpleasant, but it will be over quickly."

When he nods, I give a sharp, calculated jerk. The bones are back in place before he can cry out. 

"Support your arm against your body while you use the knitter to mend your arm. Next, heal your face and any other significant contusions. Then I want you to examine the commander. Inform me of his condition."

The ensign is white-faced and trembling, but he nods with determination.

I nod in reply, then turn my complete attention back to the console and the immediate problem of regaining full life support.


	11. Bruce

"Commander!" a blurry Harkins gasps. "Are you okay?"

I try to sit up and faint instead.

*****

I come to, again; I'm not sure how much later. This time I don't try to move until I catalog the various sources of pain. My head. My shoulder. Worst by far is my right leg. I can feel it moving a little and I groan from the intense pain. 

Everything is dim and blurred, but I figure the light colored blob down by my legs has to be the blond-haired ensign.

"Harkins. Whatever you're doing, stop it," I force out between gritted teeth.

I dizzily push myself up on an elbow, then have to swallow down a surge of nausea. My eyes feel weirdly gummy so I rub at them. My hand comes away bloody, so I wipe it on my shirt and then drag my sleeve across my face a few times.

That helps clear my vision. Even in the dim emergency lighting, I can see the angle of my leg is all wrong. Harkins had evidently been cutting away the fabric of my trousers, causing the jostling. I look again and realize there's bone sticking out of my right shin. Fuck.

I know I don't have long before shock sets in, and odds are I'm going to start puking any minute. "Where's Data? Is he hurt?"

"He's up front. He seems fine, sir. He told me to help you."

The knot in my chest loosens. Data's safe. The fact that he has the ensign with me must mean he has things relatively under control.

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, sir."

I can hear the fear in the young ensign's voice. Trying to sound like I'm not just as frightened, I say, "Oh, don't worry, Harkins. If you're going to be in any sort of accident, the one person you want with you is Data. Right?"

Harkins absorbs that and says, "Right, sir," with obvious relief.

Actually, the thought is very reassuring for me, too. Data will get us out of this. 

I swallow down another surge of nausea. "Is my leg bleeding much?"

"Not right now. I put coagulant on it." His voice gets shaky again. "It looks kind of bad."

Shit, as if I couldn't tell. Nonetheless, I've got to try to sound as normal as possible. "We'll sort it out in a minute. Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so," he gulps. "Mr. Data... he, uh, set my arm."

"Okay, hand me the med tricorder and come up here."

An alarm goes off as soon as I activate the device -- radiation-- but Harkins assures me he's already begun our hyronaline series. I lay the tricorder on my abdomen, and wave the remote up and down, squinting so I can see the readout. 

"You're okay. Just bumps and bruises."

Then I run the sensor over my chest and abdomen then up over my head. Apparently Harkins had already closed scalp and facial wounds, which accounts for all the blood I'd wiped off my face. I have a pretty good concussion, but I'd already guessed that from the dizziness and nausea. My vitals are dropping though. I'm going to black out again if I don't do something about it soon.

I pull the medkit closer and set up a hypo with anti-shock, anti-emetic, and pain meds. After a minute, the drugs start to kick in and I can think without everything being such an effort. The nausea fades; that alone is a huge improvement. I didn't dare give myself more than a half dose of painkiller, because I'm in command and it'll ruin my judgement, but as long as my leg isn't moved, the pain's tolerable enough.

I give Harkins a half dose of pain meds too, both to calm him and to take the edge off what has to be a very sore arm. Then I curse silently as I realize his freshly mended arm isn't going to be strong enough to set my leg.

"Ask Data to come here, if he can spare the time."

The ensign quickly returns with Data, who kneels by my shoulder. "Sir, I believe that we have encountered a quantum filament."

I remember that the _Enterprise_ had run into one a couple of years ago, but of course I'd been more interested in Data's electrocution than in some obscure phenomenon. As for the present, all I really want to know about the damned things is whether we can expect more of them.

"Without sensors, it is impossible to tell," Data replies. "However, there is a more immediate concern: power. Even though I have minimized our consumption rate, without a functioning transporter, it will be necessary to land. Eldaran II is our only option."

His eyes flick over to the wide-eyed boy, and then back to me. From Data's expression, I know that bad news is coming. "The landing will be very... difficult, unless I am able to regain shields and thrusters for maneuverability. Also, the main computer, communications and multiple other systems are inoperable."

Trust Data to put it in his typical understated fashion. It's bad, all right, about as bad as it can get. I close my eyes and thank god that Data is with us. I've never spent any real time in space. Though I'm trying my best to act calm, this whole situation is terrifying for a dirtsider like me.

Wait, not just for me. Data is going to have to make another crash landing, less than two weeks after putting the _Enterprise_ down on Veridian, and with that damaged chip...

I grasp his wrist. "How is your chip?"

His face is very tightly controlled, but now I can see fear flickering in his golden eyes. "It seems to be functioning very effectively."

Understatement again. I'm sure that it's all too effective, and I pray fervently that the intensity of emotion won't overload his net and cause another seizure, or what I fear most -- a neural cascade. If it does, even with the interface equipment I brought, I might not be able to save him. Without the powerful main computer, Data might die right in front of me, just like he does in my nightmares.

Data smiles reassuringly at me. "Do not worry."

Dear god, that smile. I feel my heart flip-flop in my chest. I would trade my very soul for just one kiss. 

Despite myself, I must have made some raw noise because Data's face instantly changes to concern. He looks down at my leg, then back up at me. "Sir, I must set your leg now."

"So get it over with already," I say, knowing this is going to hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. I grit my teeth hard so I won't scream.

After Harkins wraps his good arm around my chest, Data grips my ankle and nods to the ensign. There's a white-hot explosion of agony, and then blissful darkness.


	12. Data

While Ensign Harkins operates the osteoregenerator, I hold the barely conscious commander's leg immobile. While waiting for the tibia and fibula to knit, I have the ensign inject the commander with additional pain medication and a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and recite the procedures he will need to use to decontaminate the open wound and heal the remaining damage.

"You are doing an excellent job, Mr. Harkins," I reassure him, when the bones are sufficiently knitted. "I will leave you to finish this task. I must return to the helm now. Report to me when you are finished."

I have shields partially online when the two men come forward. The commander is limping, but not as badly as I feared.

"Data, report."

"Sir, I would like Ensign Harkins to work on restoring communications. I will endeavor to get thrusters and sensors back online. The batteries are draining rapidly. Regardless of the state of repairs, we must land within the next three hours."

Commander Maddox nods briskly, then hesitates. "Um... Data? What should I do?"

"The runabout is likely to be damaged during the landing. Since inertial dampers are unlikely to be restored, I recommend that you prepare a padded area using bedding materials. Gather all survival supplies and secure them in one area. It is likely that the radiation leak will worsen from the hard landing. We will need to exit the runabout immediately. We must be prepared to wait as much as a week for rescue."


	13. Bruce

I have nearly everything finished. The others were still hard at work, though I can see from the tension in Harkins' posture that things aren't going very well. 

It's not as if I could help. Even the boy knows far more about ship's systems than I do; my practical knowledge is limited to decades-old academy training and the basic skills needed to renew a pilot's certification every few years.

I'm on my last task -- replicating extra clothing for warmth -- when I remember Spot. I haven't seen her since she jumped out of my lap, but then the violent shaking and weightlessness would have badly spooked her. I quickly program the replicator to create single serving high-moisture meals for her, sealed into self-warming packets. 

I begin loading the supplies into the three carryalls I had commandeered. After making a padded shelter to ride out the expected rough descent, I had gathered or replicated everything useful I could think of -- ration bars, waterpaks, the medkit with extra replicated supplies, a tricorder, palm beacons, survival blankets, bivvy bags, my tools and test kit for Data, a collapsible shovel, hatchet, cordage, and the like. I also take the two phasers from the tiny weapons locker. 

While the replicator is too small to make a proper tent, I had been able to make basic clothing items. The generously sized extra clothes and footwear lay nearby, waiting until we get nearer the planet. Once I finish with the carryalls, all I need to do is find Spot and get her settled in the carrier.

As I divide up items into the carryalls, I try to think of ways to keep Spot warm in her carrier during the frigid wait for rescue. I decide on sheathing her carrier in and out with the insulating/heat-reflecting blanket material, and then filling the carrier halfway with shredded blanket so she can snuggle down into a heat-reflecting nest. It'll be the best place for her to ride out the rough landing, too. 

I replicate a dish of warm chicken and go in search of the orange tabby. "Spot?" I call softly as I enter Data's cabin. "Here, kitty, kitty. I've got treats for you, it's that nice chicken you like..." I wave the food around, hoping the warm aroma will draw her out. "Come on, Spot, come and get it."

There aren't many places in the small cabin for her to hide, but I don't see her. So I set the dish on the floor and kneel on the deck to look under the desk. Nothing. I check the closet, and then go to the small head. Then I see it -- reddish smears on the deck. Heart in my throat, I find her behind the toilet.

The shallow, rapid breathing is the only indication she's still alive. From the way she's crumpled in the corner, I can tell there's something wrong with her spine. There's some blood leaking from her bottom.

Quickly I limp back out to the galley and dig out the medkit. Kneeling by Spot's side again, I scan her and my fears are confirmed. Her back is broken and she's got serious internal injuries. Rationally, there is nothing we can do for her.

I get out the hypospray and pull up what's going to be a massively fatal dose of sedative. Data doesn't need to know yet; he has enough on his mind already and doesn't need any distractions. Besides, with the chip malfunctioning, the emotional shock might injure him.

I hold the hypo ready in my hand and gaze down at poor Spot.

No. Sooner or later Data is going to find out. The risk of the chip is substantially the same. Anyway, I won't take away his chance to say goodbye to his beloved pet. As a child, I had been allowed to hold my cat Shadow when the vet put him down, and knowing how easily he had crossed over to heaven had made Shadow's death a little easier to accept. I get a pillow from Data's bed, and as gently as I can, I gather Spot's broken body and settle her on the pillow.

Data has the console's lower access panels open; his head and shoulders are hidden as he works inside. Harkins looks up as I approach. His brown eyes widen at the sight of Spot, and I jerk my head towards the galley to indicate that he should leave us.

"Data?"

At the sound of my voice, Data emerges from the access panel. He sits up quickly. "What is wrong?"

I hold my breath against the pain in my leg as I kneel and carefully place the pillow on the deck next to Data. He sees her twisted form and his golden eyes snap up to mine, searching for something that will allow him to deny what's happened. 

"I'm so sorry, Data. I can't do anything for her." 

"Oh, Spot." Tears shine in his eyes as he strokes her fur with heartbreaking tenderness. She opens her eyes and mews faintly at his touch. Silent tears begin dripping down his cheeks.

I say as gently as I can, "I know you don't want her to suffer. I can let her go, if you prefer."

"No," he manages. "It... it is my responsibility."

Silently I hand Data the hypospray. I touch my fingertips to her leg and murmur a farewell. I had thought he might hesitate, but he bends quickly, pressing his lips to her head.

"I will always love you, Spot," Data whispers as he activates the hypo. Her ragged breathing stops almost instantly and Data sobs, desolate tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

I can't bear to watch Data cry, and put an arm around him. He turns and clings to me, his tears soaking through the shoulder of my uniform. 

"Shhhh," I murmur, patting his back comfortingly as my own eyes threaten to spill over. "You did the right thing. She doesn't hurt any more. She's safe in heaven now."

"Thank you for bringing her to me." Data's chest heaves as he struggles to regain his self-control. "I... I must continue to make repairs."

"I know. I'm sorry. But we'll have time to properly mourn her later," I promise. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Data rises to his feet and helps me to mine. He wipes the tears from his face, his voice still shaky. "I do not think so. There is only room for one person to work in the access panel, and Ensign Harkins is able to assist me with anything I may need. Perhaps you should take the opportunity to cleanse yourself. "

He gestures at my head. Surprised, I touch my hair and then grimace in disgust; my fingers are sticky with drying blood. I hastily wipe my hand off on my ruined trousers.

"Ugh, you're right. I'll be back in a few minutes, in case you think of anything else for me to do. I look down at Spot's body, then back up at Data. "I'll take care of Spot first."

Data's eyes start to fill again, so I briefly squeeze his shoulder. He picks Spot up and hands her pillow to me. "Thank you, sir."

I take Spot aft with me. Unable to think of a better solution, I carefully arrange her body in the cat carrier. Down on the planet, it will be more than cold enough to preserve her remains.

On the way to my cabin, I pick up my pile of clothing and send Mr. Harkins forward to help Data. Mindful of the battery drain and the approaching ice-bound planet, I take a quick sonic shower and redress, putting on layers of socks, gray turtlenecks and black trousers. Even though the runabout has cooled off considerably due to power conservation, I'm warm enough that I leave off the last turtleneck and oversized uniform jacket off for the time being.


	14. Data

I had just placed the _Daystrom-3_ in stable orbit and gotten myself repositioned in the access panel, when I hear uneven footsteps approaching. I sit up, noticing that the commander looks completely spent. Yet there is no time now for rest.

"How is it going, Data?"

"Unfortunately, we have not yet had any success with the thruster control system. I am endeavoring to find an alternative approach."

The commander looks at the ensign, who is in the co-pilot's chair. "Harkins, you'd better go get on some of your extra clothes. It's getting pretty cold in here."

Sitting down, Commander Maddox waits until the door to the ensign's cabin closes. In a low voice, he says, "Data, if we can't control our descent, we don't stand much of a chance of making it through the atmosphere. Do you think you're going to be able to fix the thrusters?"

"I am not optimistic. The plasma fire caused significant damage to the thruster controls, and nearly every other system. Since we do not have tools, spare parts, nor physical access to the engineering compartment, our repair options are very limited."

"How much time is left?"

Rising to my feet, I tap the controls on the console. "At our present rate of energy consumption, we will need to begin our approach within fifty-two minutes."

"Isn't there something you can do?"

"I _am_ trying, sir." It comes out more sharply than I had intended. 

"Data, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"It is all right. I confess that I too am feeling trepidation." 

As I fit myself myself back into the access panel, something occurs to me. "However, I have just had an idea that may prove useful."

I begin remotely crosslinking the defunct communications system's processors to those in the similarly unusable sensor array. The circuits are damaged and the power requirements disparate, but there is a 11.47% chance of success. If so, the extra processors will augment the limited backup computer so that it can handle the complicated calculations for our descent.

"Data?" When I look up, the commander says slowly, "I've been thinking. If we can't get the thruster control system online, we should stay up here."

That gets my complete attention. I sit up. "There is a possibility we will land safely."

He is looking at me with a strangely intent expression. "I like the odds up here better."

"Explain."

"A descent would eat up lots of energy. If we don't try to land, we'll have hours of power left, even a whole day. Maybe more. Another ship could find us."

"That is a possibility I have considered. However, given our flight plan, it will take two or more likely three days for Starfleet to mount a search. Local rescue is highly unlikely, given the paucity of traffic and our inability to issue a distress call. Therefore, our best chance of survival is on the planet."

The commander's eyes narrow. "Okay, Data, let's not mince words. Our best chance is on the planet. Not yours. You can survive indefinitely up here."

"Sir, please-"

"If you think for one goddamn second that I'm going to throw away the certainty of your survival, you're out of your mind."

"It is my choice, sir."

"It's not _your_ decision! I'm in command here." He glares at me. "If we don't have thrusters, we don't try to land. That's an order, Data."

I stare back at Commander Maddox, but his expression is uncompromising. I lower my eyes. Though I have my doubts, I do not have evidence of significantly impaired judgment as a basis to countermand his order. It is a bitter thing to contemplate. More bitter is that a newly selfish part of me is glad that he has recognized the futility of attempting an uncontrolled landing.

"Aye, sir." 

"Data... we'll still have a chance up here," he says, more softly. "And I couldn't stand it if... if you..." He stops and shakes his head, then says thickly, "I can't let that happen. I _won't_. Your life is far more important than mine. Can't you see that?"

I cannot think of a way to respond to that assertion, though it seems very strange that he would believe such a thing. Yet there is no time to evaluate the unfamiliar feelings. Instead, I must return to the access panel and redouble my efforts. The processor linkage has to work.

Soon the ensign returns and stands ready to assist me. When we have done all we can, I sit in the pilot's chair and prepare to test our work. Noticing that my breathing process has irrationally halted, I activate both it and the thruster control system. The console responds with the appropriate options and I enter a test command. 

"The thruster controls are responding!" I cry out joyfully. "We will-"

The open access panel erupts in a shower of sparks. I hastily power down the circuits, and the three of us gaze silently at the rising smoke.

Finally Ensign Harkins says, "Mr. Data, what can we try next?"

I look at the ensign's young, trusting face. Even now he expects me to save him. Yet I do not have the means to do so. When life support inevitably shuts down for lack of power, I will have to watch my companions suffocate. The runabout's heat will leach away and their bodies will freeze.

"Mr. Data?" the ensign quavers. 

I try to keep my voice steady. "I am at a loss to see how I can restore the processing power necessary to control the thruster system within the next thirty-eight minutes."

"So we'll go to plan B, and hunker down in orbit," the commander says. "That means the runabout will be even easier to find. Don't worry, son, everything will be all right." He pats the seated ensign's shoulder.

He turns to me and smiles tiredly. "Thank you, Data. I know you've done everything possible. We would've never made it this far without you."

"Yes, thanks, Mr. Data," Ensign Harkins chimes in.

"You are welcome," I reply, abashed. 

I cannot fail them. I must find another option. I will take another look in the still-smoking access panel. Surely some parts can still be salvaged from the damaged systems. I may be able to fabricate something of use while we are waiting for rescue.

As I prepare to work in the panel again, I happen to glance up at the commander. He is gazing at me with that strange intensity again.

"Commander?"

"Sorry, Data. It's nothing." He turns away and limps aft.

I return to the task of surveying the console's innards for potentially useful components. 

"Mr. Data? Do you mind if I go get something to eat?" the ensign asks, a few minutes later.

"Not at all. In fact, it would be best for both you and the commander to eat now and then rest. Sleeping will conserve oxygen. It will save energy as well since lighting and temperature can be further reduced."

We go back to the galley, where the commander had constructed a padded area in anticipation of a landing attempt. The table, bolted to the deck, has mattresses on the long sides, braced by strategically phaser-welded metal panels taken from the aft compartment bulkheads. 

I rifle through the carryalls quickly and pull out ration bars and water for the two men. I notice the medkit is missing. I say nothing, but realize the commander's leg must be causing him greater pain than I had anticipated. 

While the ensign begins to eat, I go aft to the commander's cabin. I press the chime, but there is no answer. I try again, then hesitate. It is likely he has fallen asleep. After a moment's consideration, I decide that while I would have preferred not to wake him, it would be better for the two to stay close together. If they combine the bivvy bags and share body warmth, I can drop the ambient temperature even more and save battery power.

"Computer, override the lock to Commander Maddox's cabin."

The cabin is fully dark and surprisingly cold. "Lights, one half. Commander?"

He does not stir. He is resting upon his bunk, fingers laced together over his uniform jacket. The medkit is on the deck next to the bunk. That he is not using a blanket strikes me as odd, and then I realize with horror that the commander is not breathing.

I snatch the medical tricorder from the medkit. Respiration and heart rate are severely depressed from an overdose of a sedative. Hastily I prepare the recommended dose of stimulant and inject it into his carotid artery.

He takes a gasping breath, and looks blearily up at me. "Goddamn it, Data."

"Why would you do this, sir?" I scan him again. Vital signs are normalizing. I sigh with relief.

He sits up readily, though he puts a hand to his temple. "It's a completely logical decision. After you, my priority is that Harkins makes it through this. Doubling the oxygen available for his use means he can survive twice as long. With any luck, that should be long enough for rescue."

"Sir, your judgment is impaired. You are sleep deprived and on pain medication. You have a concussion and other medical issues. I am hereby relieving you of command."

"I don't concur. You've risked death countless times saving your crewmates. In fact, you planned to do the same today by trying to save us by landing without thrusters. My choice is really no different than yours. While l appreciate your concern, I've made my decision. You will stand down."

"Unacceptable. You may file charges against me after we are rescued, but you _are_ relieved of command."

"Data, every breath I take is one less Harkins has." He grabs my wrist as I continue scanning. "Would you just stop and listen? Harkins is just starting his life. And he has a family. Two brothers and a sister. Think about how his needless death will impact them. His mother. His _father_ , Data. Let me give the boy a chance. Please." 

I feel a surge of compassion for the commander's distress. "You are overly emotional. That is also negatively impacting your judgment. I cannot permit this." 

He drops his head into his hands. "You don't understand."

"Sir, look at me. Do you trust my judgment?" 

"You know that I do."

"Then trust me in this. I promise you, I will find a way for all of us to survive." 

The commander takes a deep breath, then squares his shoulders and nods. "All right, Data. What's the plan?"

I smile at him, and close up the medkit. "You should eat now, then rest. The ensign will do the same." I offer my hand and help him to his feet.

I sit with the others in the galley and we brainstorm for ideas, while the commander consumes his ration bar and water. They agree with my suggestion to combine the bivvy bags for sleep. The ensign volunteers the idea of trying to access the engineering compartment by cutting through the decking and heavy shielding. A worthwhile idea, but even if the phasers can cut through, the dramatic increase in radiation and danger of explosion make it too risky. The low battery power, lack of tools and spare parts, and generation of toxic fumes are issues as well.

Then the ensign asks, "What if we linked together all our padds? I know they're not very powerful, but would that be enough to augment the backup computer?"

"Wait a minute," the commander interjects. "Data?"

"Yes?" 

"Forget padds, why couldn't _you_ just run the thruster controls? You're much smarter than the ship's computer." 

"I had considered that, sir. It is not possible. I am unable to directly interface with the runabout."

"Yes, you can! I built a custom interface so I could use the ship's computer to help you if your chip malfunctioned!"

We all smile excitedly at each other. The ensign runs aft to fetch the interface, while the commander and I head forward.

As I turn the runabout towards the planet in preparation for descent, Ensign Harkins returns with a silver case. Kneeling, the commander unpacks the device and sets it up on the deck. While I open my primary port and connect the ODN cable, the ensign opens the access panel and connects the thick data cabling into the backup computer's port.

I can feel their hopeful eyes as I activate the link. It is difficult at first to make sense of the input; the runabout's systems are in great disarray. Finally, after 6.84 seconds, I have access. Physical awareness of my own body dims as I become the crippled runabout.

"Thruster control is online," I announce. "Descent will be turbulent and our landing may be violent. I have no sensors and cannot pre-select a landing site. Please prepare yourselves."

As I near the planet, gravity begins accelerating my fall towards it. I redirect my excess processing capacity to try to get communications back online, in hopes of transmitting a distress call, but I am still unable to reactivate the heavily damaged system.

Soon my full attention is devoted to making the most energy-efficient approach through the atmosphere, balancing the need to land quickly against the rapidly draining batteries and the limited heat protection my partial shields can provide. Given the mountainous nature of the land masses, I need to hoard every joule of energy in order to eke out a few more seconds to visually select the best landing site.

The jagged mountains are tiny at first but in moments they are rushing towards me, filling the screen. I feel an upwelling of terror as I remember Veridian III and the 18 crewmates who died when I crash landed the _Enterprise_. It will be better if one of the others lands the runabout.

I had already turned towards the galley when my faulty logic becomes obvious. Only I can land this craft. Forcing down the potent emotions as best I can, I level off the runabout and make a wide circle, searching for anything that looks remotely suitable. There is nothing flat nearby; in between the peaks, there are only steep inclines and sheer dropoffs with jagged rocks beneath.

I am losing altitude rapidly when I spot a gentle slope, relatively speaking, along the far side of a knife-edged ridge. I quickly nose towards the tree-dotted mountainside, and call out, "Brace for impact!"

Tilting to match the slope, I make the final drop and activate thrusters for deceleration. I smash through trees, which helps slow me down. A large outcropping of dark rocks looms ahead, but I have just enough power to angle uphill to skim past it.

When I see the steeper terrain ahead, I realize what is going to happen, but there is nothing I can do to avoid it. My already tilted runabout-body begins to tumble sideways downhill as I skid forward. I roll over eight and a half times before coming to a sudden jarring halt as I impact against a thick stand of trees.

The instant silence is deafening.

Then the computer warnings begin flooding into my ears and into my neural net; the main one of concern is the resurgent radiation leak. Assessing that the physical damage is too severe to attempt any quick repair, I disconnect the ODN cable and close my cranial port. After reorienting myself, I release my legs' grip on the the pilot's seat. I flip over and drop down to the runabout's tilted ceiling. 

The others are sheltering in the galley. As I approach, the edge of a mattress shifts and Ensign Harkins worms out of the padded haven that now hangs from the ceiling. 

Commander Maddox emerges a moment later. I help him down, so that he need not jump on his recently knitted leg. I am relieved that both seem unharmed by the rough landing. I begin untying the secured carryalls and inform the men of the urgent need to exit the runabout as quickly as possible. They pull on their remaining clothing, balaclavas and gloves, while I reconsider the carryalls the commander had packed. An alternate arrangement of the straps will distribute the weight more effectively and be more secure, so I quickly correct them.

I feel a sharp pang when I realize the last item is Spot's carrier. I internally debate leaving her body, but then I consider the commander, who has slung a carryall over his shoulder. With his injured leg, he should bear little to no additional weight, but he clearly expects that he will be taking a carryall. To sidestep any argument in front of the ensign, I ask him quietly if he will take Spot, and he nods somberly. I take his carryall in exchange, and then secure the two heaviest carryalls together for myself. The third, I help the ensign strap onto his back.

We are ready to go. I slip on my pack and activate the rear hatch. A frigorific blast instantly carries a swirl of powdery snow inside. Despite the bitter cold and oxygen-poor air, we will have to travel to get a safe distance from the runabout before we can take shelter. Fortunately, Eldaran II's rotation is slower than Earth-normal, so we will have light for approximately another eleven hours.

I exit first, and immediately sink hip-deep in snow. The ensign follows, and we both help the commander down.

"I will break trail so that we can travel as quickly as possible. We must minimize your radiation exposure. Hurry now."

I begin forging through the deep snow, using my arms and legs to thrust the snow aside to make a path, so travel will be easier for my companions. I cut across the slope towards the nearest rocky ridge, angling downhill through the stand of trees that had halted the tumbling runabout. As I walk, I take out my tricorder and examine the rock formation. Though the ridge is not impressive in terms of height, that is a tremendous advantage. It will be relatively easy to cross and the rock will provide an effective barrier to the radiation. Though it is impossible to be certain due to the rock's magneto-resonant properties, the geological readings give me some hope of finding a cave to take shelter.


	15. Data

The combination of deep snow and thin air made for slow going. After three hours' travel, we have not covered much ground. Despite the fact that I had halted several times, the others are lagging an increasing distance behind. Their laboring breaths huff out in billowing clouds of frozen vapor.

While I wait for them to catch up, I hollow out a small area in the lee of some coniferous trees. I pile the excavated snow up into walls to afford extra protection from the bitterly cold wind. Knowing that my companions are likely to be sweaty and will chill easily upon ceasing their exertions, I unpack the silvered survival blankets.

Ensign Harkins arrives and I give him a blanket and direct him to rest. I exit the walled shelter and look for the commander, who is approximately 200 meters back. I retrace my steps towards him, making the path wider and easier. As he approaches, I can see that his limp has become considerably more pronounced. Recalling that his physical condition had been poor to begin with, I resolve to keep a closer eye on him.

While the others rest, bundled in blankets, and consume high-energy ration bars, I scan the surrounding area. The radiation level is significantly reduced at this distance, but still too high for us to make camp. I scan the ridge ahead, and estimate it will take us another hour to reach.

When I return to the small snow shelter, I am dismayed to observe the ensign is huddled into his blanket, shivering miserably. It is also alarming to note the commander surreptitiously tucking the medical tricorder back into the medkit. 

After asking the ensign to do some jumping jacks to generate body heat, I kneel at the commander's side and quietly ask if he feels able to continue. Not allowing his acerbic retort to distract me, I fix my most reproachful gaze upon him and simply wait.

"Okay, my leg's bothering me. But we're still too close to the runabout, right?" When I nod, he sighs. "I'm going to need some painkillers and stimulant. Tri-ox would help too. Both of us, actually."

I am chagrined that I had not thought of it. The concentrated oxygen compound will help the humans move more quickly in the thin air. However, I am not comfortable with a stimulant, given the commander's already highly-stressed physiological condition, and I say so.

"Stop worrying already, you mother hen," he says lightly, and glances over at Harkins, who is wrapped up again in his blanket. "I'll rest when we make camp. The sooner we get there, the better off we'll all be."

Suddenly grinning, he elbows the ensign. "Hey, Harkins, I think Data is feeling sorry for us. I bet if we play our cards right, he'll give us breakfast in bed tomorrow. It'll be just like a resort!"

When the ensign smiles faintly, the commander taps on his combadge and puts on an affected voice. "Hello, room service? I would like the ice water and ration bar special delivered at 0700 sharp, please."

Both Harkins and I have to chuckle at the absurdity. Going along with the obvious attempt to cheer up the ensign, I say, "I suppose that next you will ask me to fabricate some skis."

"What, we can't have snowspeeders? Oh, you _are_ slacking, Data," the commander teases. "Still, you've got a point. Be a damned shame if we came all this way and Harkins doesn't even get to ski. I mean, look how deep the powder is! This place is perfect."

Ensign Harkins perks up. "No offense, sir, but I think I'll stick to water-skiing. Now that's what I call fun!"

The commander continues ribbing the ensign while I turn my attention to our next move. I keenly feel the weight of responsibility for my two fragile humans.

"We must get moving," I say, interrupting their conversation. "We must establish our camp before dark."

The commander nods, all business again. "What's the plan, Data?"

While I explain my intent, he gets out the medkit again. He prepares the medications for himself and the ensign. Meanwhile, I repack the carryalls.

I lead the way toward the ridgeline. The tri-ox and the rest helped them; we make better time than I expected. Crossing the low rocky ridge was not as difficult as I had feared it might be. The stiff wind had swept the rocks clear of snow, and there is little ice to contend with. Still, between the dropping temperature, the buffeting wind, and the climb, my companions are exhausted by the time we are down on the far side.

While I search for a place for them to take a break, the men pull out the heat-reflective bivvy bags. After I regenerate the frost-bitten skin on their faces, I show them where to go. They take the joined bags and crawl into the low, shallow cave, if indeed it deserves that appellation. Overhang might be more accurate. Nonetheless, it is the best shelter available at the moment, especially once I shovel some snow to form a windbreak.

The wind has begun to whip up little swirling snow-devils. The mid-afternoon sun shines weakly through increasingly heavy gray clouds. With a sinking feeling, I realize that it is likely to snow before nightfall. We could be facing a blizzard.

The need for suitable shelter is more urgent than ever. While the others rest, I scan the ridge for caves, but there is nothing much better than what I have already found. I turn my tricorder outwards as I re-examine our surroundings.

We are in a narrow valley, sandwiched between roughly parallel ridges that angle down the mountainside. Trees dot the landscape, though there are multiple dense patches. The far ridge, perhaps an hour and a half away, is much higher and thicker than the one we have already crossed. To my relief, I locate a number of caves pocking the bigger ridge. Though the tricorder cannot give definitive readings, several appear large enough to provide good shelter.


	16. Bruce

I wake up after what seems to be only a minute or two. Blinking blearily, I realize Harkins is tapping my shoulder insistently. In unspoken agreement, being taller, he had spooned behind me in the joined bivvies, so we could share heat against the brutal cold. Surprised I didn't wake up when he crawled out, I sit up, only to be swamped by dizziness and nausea. Promising myself I'll get out of the warm bivvy bag in a minute, I tug it tighter around me. 

Data comes over and runs the medical tricorder over me. As he gives me another dose of hyronaline, Data apologetically says it's too soon for me to have any pain meds. I ask if I can get something for the nausea, at least, and Data gives me a shot and tells me to lay down until it takes effect.

Somehow I must have nodded off, because before I know it, the ensign is shaking me awake again. Harkins says we need to leave before the weather gets any worse. While I eat a ration bar and the ensign packs up the last few items, Data tells me that he's found a good place to make camp over on the far ridge. He promises we'll be there soon.

The snow is deeper in the narrow valley, and the going harder. Even with all that rest, I'm still exhausted from the earlier climb. My leg is feeling worse and worse with every step. The wind is knifing right through the layers of clothes and I think longingly of warming my freezing hands on a big steaming-hot mug of coffee.

Sighing, I try to close the growing distance between myself and Harkins. I know activity is the best way to generate body heat.

As I struggle through a particularly deep drift, following the others through a small stand of conifers, I distract myself by examining the trees. In some ways, they are surprisingly similar to Earth's, close enough to make me remember building snow forts with my little brother in the pinewoods behind our house, and the inevitable snow ball fights. Of course there are differences; these trees are relatively short and squat, and their smell is spicier in a way that reminds me of the winter holidays when I was young.

I remember Mom shucking off our snowy clothes in the front hall and herding us towards the big fireplace. My brother and I would drink hot chocolate, lazily roasting ourselves in front of the fire. In between bites of chocolate chip cookie, Brett and I would threaten each other with dire revenge in the next day's battle. Then we would read or play board games for a while, and usually fall asleep listening to the soft hiss and crackle of the fire, watching the sparks fly up as the glowing logs settled...

Between the faceful of snow and the burst of pain, I am suddenly and thoroughly awake. I struggle painfully to my feet, and brush the snow off my face and jacket. I lean down to massage my aching leg. When I look up again, I realize I'm really falling behind the others.

I resolve to catch up, but the first step lets me know that I won't, not anytime soon. Cursing the result of my careless inattention, I hobble along, fighting the deep snow for every meter of progress.


	17. Data

Shelter.

I have to find shelter.

I push on through the deep snow, my eyes searching the ridge for the caves I know must be there.

I have to find shelter.

*****

With a sudden start, I realize that it has been some time since I looked back to see how the others are faring.

To my dismay, the commander has fallen further behind. Indeed, he has scarcely advanced at all. As I watch the distant figure, I realize he is floundering ineffectually. When I contact him via combadge, I can hear that he is badly winded, though he denies any need for assistance. 

Wondering at that common tendency of males, I quickly retrace my steps. I soon reach Ensign Harkins, who is red-faced from his exertions. 

"I am going back to assist Commander Maddox. Continue until you reach the end of my trail. You are to rest while you are waiting for us. Upon our return, I will locate a cave for our camp. It is imperative that we have shelter before the storm hits."

The young officer nods wearily and pushes onward. I watch him for a minute; he is making much better time since my return trip had further cleared the narrow trail through the snow. I decide I will carefully clear the way between myself and Commander Maddox; perhaps that way he will be able to manage. If not, I will carry him.

I have covered nearly half the distance to the commander when I hear an excited cry behind me.

"Commander Data! I think I see a cave!" the ensign shouts, waving his arms up and down in his excitement. 

The echoes have not yet died when the low rumbling starts. Horrified, I look up the mountainside and see the movement. I gauge the distances against the rate of acceleration of the misty forward edge.

It is already too late.

In the remaining seconds, I cannot get to either of them. Nor can they get themselves to safety, even if they understand what is happening. I do, however, have ample time to blame myself for not foreseeing such a danger.

Numb with guilt and despair, I watch the roiling avalanche continue to accelerate, wiping out trees as it roars directly towards us.

At the last moment, I shake off the emotion chip's paralyzing effects. I snatch off my pack, duck down and curl myself into a tight ball around the carryalls.

The impact is tremendous and I hurtle downslope as the churning violence sweeps me along with everything in its way. My head and back strike something -- a rock outcropping, I think -- but the churning avalanche immediately takes me again.

When my violent descent finally stops, I am left in complete darkness. After a moment to shake off the disorientation, I begin digging my way upward through nearly two meters of snow.

Hoping against hope, I look for some sign of the others. The valley is devastated, with downed trees and debris everywhere. It is impossible to see if the others had avoided being buried, as I had been. I try my combadge but there is no response. 

I pull out the tricorder from the carryall and begin scanning for life signs. If the others are buried, their air will run out soon. Fortunately, the rich tri-ox in their blood will give me additional time to effect rescue.

There.

And there.

Both lifesigns weak, both likely severely injured from the readings. I start up the steep slope towards the commander, until it sinks in that the ensign's signal is weakening rapidly. As quickly as I can, I traverse the quarter-kilometer of unstable snow, boulders and broken trees that separate me from the ensign.

Falling to my knees, I drop my pack and dig. More than a meter down, I uncover Ensign Harkins' foot. With increasing trepidation, I dig deeper, following the obscenely distorted leg through red-tinted snow.

I find his arm and feel for a pulse. Nothing. I climb back out of the hole and snatch the medical tricorder, desperate to do something, but the flashing readout lists multiple mortal injuries. It advises that further detailed scans will be needed to determine which had killed the ensign.

No. I have killed him. 

Overwhelmed, I sink down next to his half-buried corpse.

Long moments pass before I realize that I have killed them both. In my frenzy, I have spent too much time in my futile attempt to rescue the dying ensign. By now the commander will have suffocated, even if he has not similarly succumbed to injury.

Dreading the results, I activate the tricorder. To my amazement and intense relief, faint life signs still register. Again I race to follow the signal, pushing through deep snow, climbing past boulders and over half-buried tree trunks that have been flung about like sticks. As I run, I look but cannot see the commander anywhere.

Scanning again, I pinpoint his location. He is underneath the fallen tree to my right. Again I dig frantically. Branches are in my way; I snap them off and fling them aside. I suddenly break through to an open area.

Shielded from the full weight of the snow by the branches, the commander had managed to push some loose snow away from his face, creating an air pocket. His pupils are so blown so wide that the blue is nearly gone; his cyanotic lips are in ghastly contrast to the deathly pale skin and congealed blood. 

For long moments, I stare. My neural net does not seem to be able to process what I am seeing. I blink, and try to focus.

Finally I shake off the chip-paralysis and grab for the medical tricorder. 

No heartbeat. 

No respiration. 

The tricorder beeps, and recommends adrenaline. There is residual brain activity. 

I burst into action and begin administering the recommended drugs. Adrenaline to restart his heart. Tri-ox to surge the blood oxygen level. Norepinephrine for shock. 

As his condition stabilizes from the powerful medications, I resume digging to free the commander from the snow and remaining branches. Once again discolored snow gives me early warning of injury. As I slow down, carefully digging the bloodied snow away, I see that his right arm and shoulder have been smashed so badly that they are barely recognizable. Moving to the other side of the tree trunk, I work to uncover his lower body. Under the splintered wood, his legs are grossly misshapen. I want him out from under the tree now, but I retain enough sense to resist the strong impulse. I must properly evaluate the situation or I will injure the commander further.

I return to my original position and retrieve the medical recorder's remote. I notice that a faint cloud of condensation appears with each of the commander's shallow breaths. Though I am intensely relieved at that visible sign of life, I dare not give in the euphoria of the emotion.

As I scan Commander Maddox, I try to dispassionately analyze what had happened. The initial impact likely accounted for the matched pair of mid-thigh breaks, and probably the refractured shin. Most of the other injuries seem to have occurred when he struck something on his right side. Perhaps the tree trunk. From the position I had found him in, it seems obvious that he had tried to protect his head with his arms. I suspect that saved his life. The impact had fractured his skull, crushed his right arm and shoulder, and broken most of the ribs on that side. Similarly, his right hip and upper femur are shattered. Both his pelvis and multiple vertebrae are fractured. The scan reports both cranial and internal bleeding.

Many of these injuries are impossible for me to treat. However, the simple fractures can each be knitted in a matter of minutes. That will allow me to move Commander Maddox more rapidly, once he is freed. I consider the splintered tree trunk again. If it is cut with a phaser at the correct spot, I will be able to support it so that the trunk's weight does not crush him. It does not appear to be exerting much weight upon him at present, but there will be a risk of hemorrhage when I remove it.

Dismayed, I realize that I cannot do anything about that. Yet a hemorrhage will surely be fatal within moments. Perhaps I should not attempt to remove the trunk nor indeed to move him at all. I consult the medical recorder, but neither it nor my own store of medical facts can provide me with a definitively correct course of action.

I sit back on my heels and look up again at the snow-laden clouds, gauging the coming storm. Even if I carefully surround the commander with the survival blankets, it is unlikely he can survive a night in the open. I examine him again and note that his core body temperature is already dropping. I look upslope. It is doubtful that the snowfield is stable. The storm will make additional slides more likely. 

Decision made, I carefully work the silvery blankets underneath and around Commander Maddox. I take out the osteoregenerator and in anticipation of the stress that such extensive forced cellular regeneration will place on his body, I administer glucoboost to provide instantly usable energy. As I begin to knit broken bones, I assess ways to safely transport him once cut free.


	18. Data

I set down the blanket-and-branch travois with the unconscious commander outside the cave's large opening, and get out my tricorder. I scan the shadowy recesses. I had known it would be marginal, but the scan results are worse than expected. The cave narrows quickly and is too shallow to provide much shelter from the elements. I briefly debate continuing on to the next cave, which appears to be larger. 

No. That is unwise. I have already spent too much time extracting Commander Maddox and immobilizing his body with tree-branch splits. Yet it had been essential; had I not done so, his crushed ribs would have further lacerated his bruised internal organs as the travois bumped over the uneven snow. In any event, the wind, heavy clouds and setting sun make additional travel foolhardy, even if the commander could withstand further delay in attaining shelter.

Though I am reluctant to expend the phasers' precious power, I no longer have a choice. I begin cutting the cave deeper. Using the two phasers simultaneously makes the excavation proceed quickly; waves of intense heat radiate outwards from the entrance. I save time and energy by making the new area only high enough for me to sit and wide enough for me to maneuver around the commander's body. After checking the phasers' rapidly dropping power level, I level the jagged floor then cut a small niche in the wall.

While waiting for the red-hot rocks to cool, I run back to the travois and check Commander Maddox's condition. His life signs are weakening, and his already low core temperature is continuing to drop. Warming him has become imperative.

Back at the cave, I fling shovelsful of snow onto the glowing rocks. The snow instantly hisses into steam. With steady work, the rock surface is soon cool enough for me to carefully drag the travois inside. The cave's air is much hotter and more humid than outdoors, but my data store has informed me that this is effective in rewarming a hypothermic patient. 

Still, the heat is dissipating and my phaser power limited. My next priority must be maximizing the cave's heat retentive characteristics. Making several short trips, I gather some densely needled tree branches and weave them into a thick, crude door for the cave's entrance.

As I work, snow begins to fall, although the wind whips most of the flakes away before they can settle near the rock wall. Realizing that a gust of wind may blow away the door, I hastily gather heavy branches to hold it in place. Something else occurs to me and I strip the new branches to make a pile of needled twigs. I will use a thick layer to keep the commander elevated from the cave's rocky floor, where the coldest air will settle.

After tossing the heap of twigs inside, I cover the cave entrance with the thick shield. After the makeshift door is well braced, I wriggle through the corner I had left loose. It is almost totally dark inside so I switch on a palm beacon and set it in the niche. I am gratified to find that the commander's core temperature is already increasing.

The wind is growing louder. I go back to the door and peer out through the corner's relatively loose branches. The snow is falling much more heavily now. I rearrange the branches, noting that the wind barely penetrates. Satisfied that I have made the cave as snug as practicable, I turn my attention to insulating the rock floor. 

When I shift the travois onto the thick pine needle bedding, the commander makes a small noise. I move to his side.

"Commander," I say softly. "It is Data. Can you answer?"

He groans again and his eyes open for a moment. I call his name again, but he does not respond. It becomes obvious he has slipped back into unconsciousness, so I turn my attention to the next task. I must keep him stable until we are rescued. 

Mentally re-cataloging the medkit's contents, I wish again that it had been stocked with advanced medical supplies, rather than the most basic devices and medications. I have extensive medical facts and procedures stored in my data banks, if no practical experience in applying that information, but without the proper instruments, I can do little for the commander's more severe injuries. 

Yet I am not completely helpless. I do have the regenerators and judicious healing will help Commander Maddox tolerate the non-repairable injuries. After taking the time to heal his face and torn scalp, I begin the real work by untying the body splints and carefully slicing through the multiple layers of bloodsoaked clothing.

As I gingerly peel back the last layer, I am confronted with the dreadful sight of his deformed chest and the crushed remains of his shoulder and arm. Even the undamaged skin on his left side is mottled with rapidly blossoming dark bruises. Immobilized by the horror of what my carelessness had wrought, I cannot bring myself to touch any of it.

The growing stench of blood finally galvanizes me to action. He is bleeding heavily again -- removing the fabric had disturbed the clotting. Quickly I seal sheets of sterile dermoplast over the worst parts, though the boneless feel of his raw flesh is sickening. Noticing the plasma gun as I empty the medkit again in hopes of a missed sheet, I inject him once, and then again.

I scan him and find with relief that his blood pressure has rebounded with the increase in volume. I berate myself for not thinking of it earlier. How could I have missed such an obvious treatment? Indeed, I should have known better than to disturb the arm and shoulder in the first place.

Fearing that my neural net has been somehow damaged, I initiate diagnostics. There are no obvious errors, though the emotion chip is extremely active. However, surely that is to be expected in a stressful situation. If only I could turn it off!

With an unpleasant jolt, I notice the commander's exhalations are fogging the air. The cave has cooled while long minutes somehow passed unheeded.

A second diagnostic is no more helpful than the first. I can only conclude the chip is affecting me even more than I had thought. Shaking off my disorientation as best I can, I pile chunks of rock into several heaps around the commander's motionless form. A few short phaser bursts leaves the rocks faintly glowing red.

After tossing some snow on the rocks to increase the humidity, I check the commander's vitals again, then sit back and consider my work. I must avoid making any more mistakes. I pick up the medical recorder again, but the recommendations remain basic, intended for non-medical personnel to follow. Worse, it does not take into account the fact that the medkit's contents must last for several more days and therefore lists unsupportable dosages. 

When neither the medical recorder nor I can come up with any additional measures save elevating the commander's legs, I do so very carefully, mindful of his fractured pelvis, then tuck in the survival blankets more firmly around his still form. I shut off the palm beacon to save power, and set it back in its niche.

That accomplished, there is nothing to do but wait.

I do not want to remember, but the sounds and images of the day keep replaying with absolute clarity, over and over again. The warning beeps from the helm, seconds before impact. Spot lying broken upon the pillow, and the tiny sound she made before she died. The white cloud thundering down the mountainside. Ensign Harkins' leg twisting down out of sight and the awful way it had flopped sideways mid-shin as I dug away the supporting snow. The snowflakes caught on the commander's eyelashes as he stared sightlessly up at me.

If only I had gotten to the helm faster, all of it might have been avoided. If only I had thought through all of the inherent dangers of our surroundings! All of the death and suffering and blood are my doing, _my_ fault!

I put my head in my hands and weep.


	19. Bruce

It's dark and I can't move; the more I struggle, the heavier the weight on my chest gets. I can't breathe and I have to get out, I have to somehow get out...

Data's voice finally cuts through the terror. Something hisses against my neck and suddenly I don't need air so badly, even though breathing itself doesn't get any easier. 

As the panic eases, my fogged brain and vision begin to clear. I can see Data gazing down at me. I can tell he's been crying.

"Sir, please. You must calm yourself."

I try to do as he says. Thank goodness, his voice sounds normal enough. The thing is, I can't figure out where we are. When I try to ask him, what comes out is sort of a weak groan. 

He lays a finger across my lips. "Do not attempt to speak. You are injured and must remain still." My confusion must be obvious because Data adds, "The runabout was damaged. We landed on Eldaran II. We are in a cave, awaiting rescue."

I grope back in my memory, trying to match it to his words. Flashes come back to me. The crash. Walking. Cold. And then a wave of snow is coming at me and I scream...

When I come to, there's a painfully bright light in my eyes. Squeezing them shut, I try to turn away but I can't move my head very much.

The light shifts away. "Do not be afraid. You are safe now."

I can make out Data leaning over me. This time, the fact that he looks as scared as I feel is enough to get my brain working again, albeit fuzzily. Then I notice the jerkiness of his movements and I remember the damaged chip. I have to get a grip for his sake before he spikes into overload or god forbid, cascade. With an effort, I manage a slight nod. He smiles tremulously down at me.

Something nags at me, though. It seems like there's something missing. Someone?

The tall blond boy. Harkins. 

I try to ask, but the best I can do is a weak whisper.

New tears start down Data's cheeks. "Ensign Harkins is dead. I thought that you... A ship will come soon. You will be fine."

How could I be so stupid? Of course the boy must be dead if he's not here. Data would never leave him otherwise. I push down my grief; there's nothing to be done about it now and getting Data more upset is the last thing I want. Blinking away incipient tears, I smile as best I can.

Data drags a sleeve across his wet face, a novel behavior that habit makes me catalog, as if it matters. "You will be fine." 

He turns and picks up something -- the medical tricorder, from the sound of it. His eyebrows draw together and in another minute, there's another hiss.

I can't help but try to look down at myself. I can't really see much, so I try moving. Even though it hurts, I keep at it. I realize I can only move my left hand; the fingers wiggle but nothing else seems to respond. Wait, I can shift my left arm... 

"Please stop." Data takes my arm and places it back at my side. "You are unable to move your other limbs because I have immobilized your injuries."

I lift my aching head as much as I can, a few centimeters, and squint down, trying again to see myself in the dim light. The silver of a survival blanket covers me, obstructing my view. I can feel odd pressures here and there; more frightening are the blank expanses. I can't feel my legs or my right arm.

Then I remember how that happened, the careening along, then pain and then an awful crunch. I remember waking up with clumps of snow burning cold on my face while I waited for Data. His frame is a thousand times sturdier than ours; I knew Data would only be lightly damaged, if at all. I knew he would come to help us. But it had been so hard to wait, so cold, so hard to breathe...

Reflexively, I take a deep breath. That turns out to be a very, very bad move. 

Data's face is over mine. "What is wrong?"

"Hurts," I finally croak, willing myself to stay perfectly still and take only shallow breaths. Anything to avoid that stabbing pain again.

"I can give you additional pain medication, but I thought it better to conserve..." Data's voice trails off and he picks up the hypospray, looking jerkily from it to me, and back.

"Wait," I whisper. Right, we're in this for the long haul. Of course he has to ration it out. "Not bad." Not compared to what it will be like later, if he runs out of meds.

"It will be time soon."

"'kay," I manage.

The silence stretches out. When Data tugs at my blankets for the third time on as many minutes, I try for a reassuring smile, and Data's jerky motions seem to smooth out. 

Suddenly his face lights up. "Commander, did you notice that the composition of the rock in this area is quite similar to that of Pertan IV?"

I would laugh if I could. Only Data would think of something like that at a time like this, would even have remembered the collection of geodes and fossils on display in my office. Not my finds; my son Mihir had been the rockhound. I'd picked up a smattering of geology and mineralogy during our many expeditions, but at best I'm an amateur. Now, though, I'm more than willing to be diverted, so I raise my eyebrows to show interest.

Data chatters on and on. I grunt a reply now and then as he shines the palm beacon on various bits of rock in the ceiling, and continues his discourse on mineralogy, geology, and the likely impact of the encroaching ice age on the terrain.

Eventually it seems even Data can run out of trivia. He sits silently on his heels for a moment, then uses a phaser to heat up some small heaps of rock. I'm wrong about Data's trivia, though: he takes the opportunity to expound on the heat-retentive characteristics of assorted igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks. Then he readjusts my blankets for about the twentieth time and asks how I'm feeling.

"Water," I whisper, as much to give him something to do as from real thirst.


	20. Geordi

"What do you mean, there's still no message for me? Dammit, check again, Salchah!"

I wait on the ruined bridge of the _Enterprise_ , tapping my foot impatiently while the interior work crew scurries about. Why the hell isn't Data responding to my messages? Normally I only have to wait an hour or two at most, unless Data's in his dream program. It's early afternoon for me, but by the runabout's chrono, it's mid-morning. Data should've been up for hours.

"Come on, Ensign. What's the hell's taking so long?" I snap.

The salvage tug's Vulcan comms officer appears on the portable console. "Lieutenant Commander La Forge, Ensign Salchah is correct. You have received no incoming messages."

I stare at her impassive face, and make a decision. "Get me Captain Picard on Starbase 258. Priority call."

The captain is onscreen in less than a minute. "Mr. La Forge. Is something amiss?"

"I think so, sir," I say, suddenly feeling a bit hesitant. But no, I'm not going to second guess my gut reaction. If Data's anything, he's predictable. He would've noticed incoming messages and he never would have left my increasingly worried messages unanswered for so long. Not Data. Maybe that shithead Maddox is deleting them somehow, before Data even sees them.

After I explain my concerns, the captain raises an eyebrow. "Geordi, aren't you overreacting? I don't care for the man either, but I hardly think he would tamper with an official communications system."

"Maybe not," I concede, "but you've got to admit it's awfully strange that Data's not answering. Harkins either. I've sent him three messages in the last four hours."

"Very well. I will contact Data myself."

"Thanks, sir. I really appreciate it."

I go back to my work with a vengeance. The major evolution for the day is using the _Farragut_ 's tractor beam to get the first of the saucer section's impulse fusion reactors off-planet, and into the _Grapple_ 's huge cargo bay: not something that's forgiving of even small mistakes.

When I was called back to the console, it was the captain, looking grim. "Mr. La Forge, you were correct. The runabout is not responding to any messages, including my priority coded Personal-For messages."

 _Maddox, you lousy son of a bitch_ , I think bitterly. "Captain, I recommend initiating a Priority Alpha-One hail."

"I've already requested the codes. I expect them shortly."

"Thanks very much, sir." 

Besides tripping off every alarm in the runabout, using command prefixes will force an automatic reply, including ship's position and status. The captain will even be able to take remote control. In the worst case, any starship will be able to catch the relatively slow runabout in a matter of hours.

*****

It's difficult to wait; luckily I have a good team working on the details of the reactor removal because no matter how I try, I can't quite keep my mind 100% on the job at hand. You'd better believe I was instantly there when the incoming priority message flashed on the console.

One look at the captain's face and I knew it was bad news.

"Geordi, the _Daystrom-3_ has been declared missing. The _Farragut_ is the nearest starship, and I've asked that they begin a search and rescue mission immediately. Her captain informs me that you are presently using her tractor beams. How much longer do you need her services?"

My mind is working frantically. By all accounts he's very smart and one hell of a programmer, but no way is Maddox bright enough to circumvent the security and failsafes built into the Alpha-One system. That means some sort of sudden accident or maybe an attack on the unarmed roundabout. Something bad enough that even Data couldn't get off a distress call. And it's been so long already...

The captain coughs discreetly and I force myself to concentrate. If only we hadn't started moving the reactor yet! 

"Uh... it's gonna be at least another three hours. I don't think I can do better than that, sir, not and maintain safety protocols."

"I know you will do your best." He sees my hesitation. "Is there something else?"

I'm torn; I want to ask if I can go but I know my place is here, making sure the reactor is safely transferred and then stowed. I sigh. "No, sir."

"Don't worry, Geordi. The _Farragut_ will find them."


	21. Data

With the commander sleeping after the latest round of medication, I kneel at the cave's entrance and peer out through parted branches.

The storm has finally blown over. Without the shriek of the wind, the only sound is the slow, labored breathing behind me. I glance back; the commander seems to be resting comfortably. I turn and look outside again. Unequal moons and a multitude of stars shine fiercely in the thin air.

The secretive glimmering of the snow attracts my attention. As I study it, the thought occurs to me that it wants me to make another mistake so it can take the commander, as it has taken Ensign Harkins. As it has taken Spot.

Logic reasserts itself. These bizarre notions are not thoughts I would have had before installing the emotion chip. Snow is only frozen dihydrous oxide precipitate. It cannot want anything.

Still, I find my gaze inexplicably drawn to the stark, niveous landscape. Despite myself, I wonder which of the mounds contains the ensign's body. I see something dark marring the smooth, gleaming surface; poking up in the distance. His leg?

I am down the steep mountainside before I realize what I am doing, but it is only a broken branch. I look around wildly; where is he? I must save Ensign Harkins! And I must find Spot! Disoriented, I turn around several times, not knowing where to start digging.

*****

Some time later, I come to my senses, shoulder-deep in a half-excavated snowdrift. Feeling the stiffness of frozen tears on my face, I stop the useless digging.

What have I been doing? Ensign Harkins and Spot are dead. What can I do for them, even if I am able to locate them?

Nothing.

It is all my fault. Once again I have allowed the chip to overwhelm me. I have failed the most basic tenets of my programming. I have failed to keep my humans from harm.

I belatedly recall the cave and its helpless occupant. A sickening neural flutter spreads throughout my body, leaving my limbs trembling. 

When I regain motor control and am able to climb out of the hole, I do not know which way to go. I focus on my meandering tracks, trying to make some sense of them and find the point of origin.

Finally I think to examine the shadowed contours of the ridgeline, and I am able to identify my position. I set off for the cave as quickly as I can.

The strange, wet sounds alert me that something is wrong even before I crawl inside.

Somehow, despite the remaining splinting, the commander had managed to shift so that he had slid partially off of the mounded pine needles. Then I observe the vomit on his chin and neck. I seize the medical recorder only to find that in struggling, the commander's splintered ribs have torn his right lung. Aspirated blood and vomit contaminate the other. He is stuporous, with bloody bubbles accompanying each gurgling breath.

Apologizing uselessly as I yank off my jacket, I turn his head to the side and wipe his mouth clear. After I administer tri-ox and powerful systemic stimulants, the commander's heartbeat steadies and he regains consciousness. His left hand flails weakly; I catch it and hold it tightly.

"I will not leave again," I promise over and over. In my shame, I cannot look him in the eye. Nor can I bear his tiny, tormented moans; I give him more painkiller. Mercifully, he quiets down. I wash his face clean of the blood and vomit.

Though his panicky grip finally eases, I keep apologizing. He squeezes my hand, and stares up at me with an odd determination. Surprised, I fall silent.

"Have..." he whispers, then coughs weakly. A thread of bloody spittle runs from his mouth. "Tell..."

I wipe his face with a clean corner of fabric. "Shhh. Whatever you have to tell me can wait."

Commander Maddox clutches my hand again. "Dan... ger... you... have... tell..."

"I will be fine," I interject. "Please do not try to speak. You must conserve your strength."

" _No_." The commander is becoming more agitated; the next coughing spell leaves him trembling. 

"Sir, please stop." My hands shake as I wipe more blood away. "You will further injure yourself."

He stares at me intently. "Day... strom... chip... no... La For..."

"Geordi recognizes that this repair is beyond his skill. He will wait for your assistance. Rest now, please."

"No," the commander groans. "No."

Baffled by his persistence, I reconsider his words. Could he mean there is something dangerous at the Daystrom Annex? That makes no sense. We had been on our way there, after all. Reason dictates that the commander would feel there is danger to me if we do not continue on to his well equipped lab at the annex.

Initiating a complete analysis, I identify an alternate explanation. Perhaps he wishes to be certain that, while he is recovering, I will receive the best care available. Doubtless he wants the admiral to examine my chip.

Squeezing his left hand, I say, "I understand now. You want me to go to Daystrom and have Vice Admiral Haftel assist me with my chip. I will do as you ask."

The vehemence of Commander Maddox's reaction leaves no doubt that that was not at all what he wanted. Unfortunately it also triggers another bout of weak, bloody coughing. After the spasm was finally over, the commander is so pale and motionless that at first I thought he had passed out.

However, he was only gathering his strength. Again the commander tried to speak, but his broken whispers were unintelligible. Desperate to determine what is so important to him, I tentatively ask if I am supposed to stay away from Daystrom. The relief that shines in his eyes is unmistakable. I squeeze his limp hand again, and he stretches his lips into a ghastly parody of a smile, his teeth limned with red.

"I am sorry," I whisper, knowing that he is slowly dying; knowing just as surely that it is my fault. The earliest we can expect rescue is more than a day away; almost three days is more likely. With the additional lung damage my negligence had caused on top of his other injuries, the odds of the commander living that long are...

I make myself stop my calculations. They do not matter. I have seen the captain and many others prevail despite overwhelming odds on numerous occasions. They do not give up. I will not give up either.

The commander coughs wetly, his wan face contorting as more spasms rack his frame. Fresh guilt washes through me. I want to ease his pain, but I dare not give more than a quarter-dose; more will slow his critically weak metabolism.

He makes that dreadful bubbling, choking noise again. I wet the hem of my jacket and do my best to sweep his mouth clear and clean the blood from his teeth. I scan him and after reflection on the dismal results, I carefully readjust his torso on the re-mounded pine needles, so that his head tips more to the side, providing a slightly better airway.

The commander stirs at my touch, but does not seem to recognize me. He licks his bluish lips several times and though I am too afraid to give him anything more to drink, lest he vomit again, finally I decide a few drops of water might make him more comfortable. 

As the icy snowmelt drips slowly into his mouth, the commander's dull eyes flicker open. His gaze wanders aimlessly so I give him more tri-ox, and after a few moments, the confusion seems to clear. I think he recognizes me; at the very least he knows he is not alone.

Putting on an encouraging smile that I do not feel, I dip my fingers in the water again. Not wanting to give him so much liquid that he would have to swallow, this time I smooth my fingers over his dry lips. Suddenly I feel a faint pressure. Then it comes again.

He is kissing my fingertips.

I look at him, confused by the bizarre behavior. His expression shocks me anew. He looks... adoring? Worshipful? Rapturous? None of these descriptions make sense, yet those words are what spring to mind. Then he touches my fingers with his lips again.

My astonishment must be plain. In truth, I do not have the slightest idea of what I should say or do. I sit back on my heels and try to understand. I think back over all of our interactions, and as I reintegrate my memories, his actions begin to fall into place.

A gurgling sound breaks into my daze. He is too weak to cough so I am forced to turn him on his relatively uninjured side to let the red phlegm drain.

When he can breathe again, I gently tap his uninjured shoulder. No one has ever loved me before, and I want to ask him when he knew. I want to ask how he knew. I want the answers to the other forty-seven questions whirling in my mind.

I tap on his uninjured shoulder very gently, and then a little more more insistently.

There is no reaction. With another shock, I realize Commander Maddox is unconscious. Not knowing what else to do, I close his vacant eyes and then warm his cold hand with mine, releasing it only to periodically reheat the stones and scan him with the tricorder.

When he sinks into a deepening coma, I comfort myself with the thought that at least he will feel no pain while we wait for a ship to save us.


	22. Data

His shallow, uneven breathing ceases shortly before dawn.

I am at the cave's entrance, looking out at the brightening sky, and at first I am not unduly alarmed. In recent hours, there had been a number of brief lapses but the commander's respiration had restarted each time.

This time, the silence continues. Then the medical tricorder sounds.

I scramble to his side and spill out the medkit's contents and seize the hypo. I can feel his heart faltering under my fingers, so I jam the hypospray against his carotid artery and inject tri-ox and systemic stimulants. I sigh with relief when his heart finally settles back into a weak bradycardia. 

Yet the commander does not reinitiate spontaneous respiration. I pinch his nostrils closed, then seal my lips to his slack mouth. As I breathe for him, I try to ignore the sickening metallic taste of his blood.

*****

As one hour turns into another, it becomes more difficult to inflate his lung. Greater force works briefly, but soon the resistance increases even more. At the same time, the commander's heartbeat grows increasingly arrhythmic. I inject more anti-shock medication and tri-ox. His lips and fingertips pink, but not as much as before.

The medical recorder confirms my fears. His sole usable lung is filling with fluid. More fluid is building up around his bruised heart and lung, preventing them from functioning properly. At the same time, air from the torn lung is leaking into his chest cavity, placing additional pressure on his laboring cardiovascular system.

In between assisted breathing, I review the medkit's dwindling contents, hoping to find something I have somehow overlooked. I check the medical tricorder again for suggestions, with no better results. Rolling the hypospray between my fingers, I ponder at length whether I should administer additional systemic stimulant. Ultimately I do not dare to do so, lest it push his already overstrained heart into final fibrillation. 

Innumerable questions and uncertainties plague me. If only I had downloaded medical case studies, I might know how to treat the commander's complex condition more effectively. How could I have thought that filling my data store with facts would be sufficient?

As his life signs weaken further, I grow more and more anxious. The phasers are drained, and I have no way to warm him. Not only are his pupils becoming increasingly unequal, I have to apply even greater air pressure to get his chest to lift. The medical tricorder informs me that some of the air is being diverted to his stomach, making further vomiting likely. Worse, the overpressure is damaging his delicate alveoli. Much harder, and I will risk rupture of his remaining lung.

Thinking to circumvent the difficulty, I administer yet more tri-ox, but a new problem arises to take its place. In hindsight, it is perfectly predictable, yet no database entry had forewarned me. Though the commander once again has ample oxygen circulating through his cardiovascular system, his inability to exhale sufficient CO2 is causing his blood pH to drop. If this continues, he will die within minutes.

There has to be something I can do. I resume assisted breathing while I mentally re-catalog the primary and side effects of each of the drugs on hand. None will be effective for this issue. I can do nothing about the flail chest or lacerated lung. I reluctantly conclude that the only possible solution is performing the recommended surgical relief of the tamponade that is limiting the ability of Commander Maddox's heart and lung to expand.

Giving a last puff, I pick up the exoscalpel with trembling fingers. I can feel my ethical program quivering with conflict at the thought of what I am about to try, but I silence my fears as best I can with the sure knowledge that his death is imminent if I do not make the attempt. After reviewing my files on human physiology one last time, I position the blade. I steady the knife with my other hand, and slice deeply into his chest.

I jerk back, crying out in disgust as bloody fluid gushes over my hand. But it is working: I can see his chest subside as the pressurized effusion escapes. I force myself to touch the commander again, and gingerly pluck the exoscalpel from his bruised flesh. Swallowing my revulsion, I bend over his motionless form and puff a tentative breath into his mouth. His lung inflates much more easily, though some blood froths out of the incision with each breath.

Yet I have won little respite. The sudden reduction of pressure, coupled with low blood volume, has caused hypovolemic shock. I inject more drugs and the last of the plasma. Slowly, his pH level and clotting begin to normalize.

I keep constant watch on his condition and vitals as an eternity of minutes passes. Though I am doing my best to forestall the inevitable, an accelerating downward spiral is evident. The medical tricorder is warning of increasingly dire issues, from the brain bleeds forming ever larger hematomas, as well as peritonititis, internal hemorrhaging, worsening hypothermia, and impending organ shutdown. Even where I am able to implement a stopgap measure, it often buys but little time and engenders additional problems. I cannot see any way he will survive another day, much less two.

*****

The tricorder shrills its alert less than an hour later. For several minutes, it had been registering barely sufficient blood pressure, and at last, it warns of imminent cardiac arrest. 

Despite injections of adrenaline, the commander's heart will not restart. I do what I must, what I have been dreading: positioning my hands properly over the sternum, I begin chest compressions. I wince at the occasional cracking noise as Commander Maddox's badly damaged ribcage further deforms under the compression necessary for effective blood circulation. Tricorder alarms tell me that the broken ribs are tearing into the commander's organs, but I must not stop. I must rely upon the fact that his blood pressure is abysmally low; that profound shock has already minimized blood flow to his limbs and organs in an attempt to protect his brain.

Turning off the shrieking tricorder, I squeeze my eyes shut. I know at some point my efforts will be useless, and I do not wish to know when that moment occurs.

I focus my attention only on the steady rhythm. Five compressions, two puffs into his one functional lung; it is almost hypnotizing. Even so, I cannot stop despairing thoughts from creeping in. Time and distance are working against us, and I will not be able to fend off death for much longer. 

Then I grow angry. This is his fault as much as mine. Why did he not die quickly, the way others have? Like Ensign Harkins, like Tasha, like my crewmates who had perished in the saucer section crash? People either die quickly or doctors are there to heal them. That is the way things are supposed to happen.

Five compressions. Two breaths. Again.

As I work, angry thoughts fill my mind. Why must I be the one to do this? Why is it always me that others turn to in a crisis? Why do they always expect me to have the answers? To save them? And why did Commander Maddox have to look at me that way? 

"It is not fair!" I sit back and glare at him. "Damn you! I do not want this responsibility!"

No one is there to hear me. The only person who has ever loved me is dead.

 _Enough of this charade_ , I think, suddenly weary of pretending any other outcome was possible. It is not my fault that a rescue ship has not come in time. No one can say that I have not tried to save him.

As I yank the silver blanket up, his left arm splays out towards me. Instantly furious all over again, I fling his arm across his chest. It flops back down and again I am forced to touch repulsively icy, dead flesh. Finally I am forced to wedge his hand under some bindings to get it to stay.

Incensed, I jerk the blanket upwards. Yet somehow I cannot take the final step and cover his face.

I am filled with hate for him then, for leaving me here with his corpse; for the accusingly blank expression on his pallid face; for silently blaming me for letting him die. 

Wiping angrily at my tears, I decide that I will perform every single possible procedure. If he cannot be saved, it will be his own damned fault. Not mine.

Seconds stretch into minutes, measured out by the rhythmic creak and squish of cardiac compressions and the silent counterpoint of my tears.


	23. Data

Our combadges chirp simultaneously. 

" _Daystrom-3_ , this is the _Farragut_. What is your status?"

I lunge for my jacket. "Medical emergency. Two to Sickbay."

The transporter takes us and in moments, we are on the ship. The medical staff erupts into a flurry of activity: initiating full life support, running scans, administering medications. Others immobilize the commander's spine before cutting away the layered clothing, as well as the splinting I had used in my attempts to protect his shattered joints, unstable pelvis and fractured lumbar and sacral vertebrae.

A sterile surgical field flares and I watch aghast as a doctor slices into Commander Maddox's purpled, distended abdomen. When they spread him wide open, I feel dizzy from the sight of a bloody soup of grayish-purple viscera and entrails. The foul reek of blood and ordure grows unbearably strong in the warm room. The medical team works in a juddering of irregular motion, overlaid with a cacophony of alarms and buzzing voices. I stagger backwards against the bulkhead just behind me. 

Initiating diagnostics, I force my attention to the detailed process and results as a means of distraction from the intense emotions. When the sensory distortion finally eases, I reopen my eyes. I can barely see the commander's body through the crush of personnel around the surgical bed.

"Tanler, I need the CMO down here _now_ for the neurosurgery," the doctor says tersely. "I need to get this hepatic hemorrhaging under control."

I follow his gaze as the doctor glances up at the readouts. A new alarm shrills. "Zarouq, deal with those pulmonary emboli and watch for DVTs. A'nar, step it up on the retroperitoneal pelvic packing."

Another alarm sounds. The doctor sighs. "All right, that's it, he's decompensating. Everybody back a step. And Johnson -- better check if he wants a chaplain."

Panic seizes me, but before I can object, the doctor says, "Initiate cryosurgical field."

Surprised relief washes through me. The _Farragut_ had been through refit recently; obviously this Sickbay has received the upgraded cryostasis surgical technology that Dr. Crusher has mentioned several times.

The surgical field shimmers, turning faintly blue as the commander's metabolism slows to a tiny fraction of normal. The doctor takes up a set of tools that allow him to perform surgery while keeping his hands safely outside the cryofield. 

"Pham, get scans on the bladder and that intestinal tearing. Jensen, get full decontam started. And you," he jerks his head towards me, "get out of my OR."

A transporter hums and a wet-haired human female -- surely the Chief Medical Officer -- materializes, even as she pulls on a boot. She studies the diagnostic panel with a frown while absently holding out her hands for a red surgical gown. 

Someone touches my arm. "Sir, you need to leave now." The nurse shakes his head at my automatic protest. "I promise you, they're doing their best. Besides, the captain wants to see you." He wrinkles his nose, and gestures at me. "I think I'd better take you to clean up first, though."

As he turns to lead me away, I look down at myself. My uniform turtleneck and trousers are heavily stained and foul smelling. My fingernails are crusted with the commander's blood.


	24. Geordi

The captain had given me a quick rundown, and as torn up as I was to hear about Jeff Harkins, it's a gut punch to think about what Data's gone through. 

All of that, on top of new emotions... I know he'll need help, but there's just no way I can abdicate my responsibilities for the salvage ops. At least Commander Riker and Dr. Crusher should be able to spend time with him, since the _Farragut_ had dropped Data and Maddox off at Starbase 278. It's just bad luck that Deanna's already left on a diplomatic mission, and the captain's got to leave for Vulcan in the morning. 

When Data finally comms me back, he looks like pure hell, no two ways about it. I try to get Data to talk to me about how he's doing, but Data keeps going on about Maddox. All right, so it's not looking good. The docs don't expect he'll live through the night, much less long enough for the cloned organs to be ready for transplant. 

"Data," I interrupt. Jokes aside, I never actually wanted the guy to die but honestly, right now Bruce fucking Maddox is the least of my concerns.

"Data," I say more forcefully, when he starts telling me about some experimental procedure the doctors are trying. "Data! What about you?"

He blinks slowly. "I... am undamaged."

"You don't look too good, buddy. Do you want to talk about it?"

He looks down at his hands -- his fingernails? -- as if he's never seen them before. His lips are trembling.

"Come on, Data," I coax. "What is it? You know you can tell me anything."

"Geordi, I killed them!" Silent tears spill over and run down his cheeks.

"Oh, no, Data, _no_ , you didn't. It's not your fault. You did everything that anyone could possibly expect. More, really."

"But... but..." He dissolves into sobs.

I would give anything to be there with Data, to be able to put my arms around him and just comfort him. I've never seen him this upset. 

"No buts about it, Data. What happened was an accident." 

He starts to blame himself again but I keep going. "Detecting quantum filaments is practically impossible. You _know_ that, Data. Even if you had been at the helm, it would have taken time and more sensor sweeps to know which way to dodge. And from what the captain said, you're the only reason the runabout made it down in the first place."

Data looks wretchedly unhappy as he wipes his face, but at least he's listening.

"You did the right thing, getting them away from the runabout. You had to move and you had to move quickly. Harkins was inexperienced and he got excited. It was just a terrible accident."

"It was my error," Data says bleakly. "I was aware that Ensign Harkins' home of record was Arcandilla. As a hot worlder, he could not have known of the risk of an avalanche. I should have anticipated both the danger and the need to warn him. Instead, I allowed myself to be distracted by emotion."

"Oh, come on, Data, cut yourself some slack. You've had the chip, what, all of two weeks? And anyway, Maddox should've looked over Harkins' record too. Plus he was senior to you. By your own argument, he was to blame."

"No, Geordi. I was in command."

"What? Why?" Not that I'm surprised to hear that Maddox couldn't hack it.

"Commander Maddox was seriously injured even before we landed. I relieved him of command. What happened is _my_ fault. It was my duty to protect them and I failed."

I shake my head vehemently. "Data, accidents happen. Look, the only reason Maddox has any chance is because of you. Captain Picard said the docs are astonished that you brought him in alive."

That turns out to be the wrong thing to say; Data starts bawling again. From what I can make out, he blames himself for not knowing more medical stuff. I try to set the record straight, but then Data goes off on another tangent. He's upset about Maddox tearing himself up trying to talk. For some reason, Data had had to promise Maddox not to go to the Daystrom Annex.

I snort in disgust. "Maddox didn't want anyone else figuring you out. Wow, what a jerk."

"Geordi, you are wrong! He... he _cares_ for me and-"

"Bullshit, Data! He cares for what you can do for his career." I laugh bitterly. "For someone who acted all concerned about getting you repaired, Maddox sure changed his priorities in a hurry."

Data starts to argue, and I'm angry all over again. Why Jeff Harkins had to die when that bastard is still alive... it's so damned unfair. Losing another one of my team, on top of the six that died during the crash... It's too much, it's just too damn much to take.

Data is still on about Maddox and I snap, "No, Data! No more! I wish he was the one that died! Jeff was worth a dozen-"

Data looks so stricken that it shocks me right out of my angry tirade. Yeah, I'm hurting too, but I shouldn't be taking it out on Data. 

"Data, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But please, can't we just forget about Maddox and concentrate on you?" I ask. " _You're_ the one that's important. I'm really worried about you."

He wipes awkwardly at his face, then nods slowly.

"I wish I could be there for you. I know this feels awful, but it gets better with time, little by little. I promise. That probably isn't comforting at all right now, but it is true."

Data nods listlessly, then brings up the chip again. He's wondering what to do since he doesn't plan to go to the Daystrom Annex.

"Well, gee, Data, obviously we're going to have to fix it ourselves," I reply, a little stung that he seems to think I'd just take off for the Mars shipyard after finishing up with salvage ops. 

"Tell you what. I'll upgrade the removal of your lab equipment to top priority. You should get the first of it in a couple days. You find a space for a new lab, then start setup and testing while you're waiting for me to finish up here. Then you and me, we'll fix the chip. Together. All right?"

For the first time in the conversation, there's a little life in his face. "Yes, Geordi. Thank you."

"Okay then. But listen, Data, it's late. Why don't you get some dream time tonight? Get your mind off things for a while."

Data does his best to smile and I do too. "Talk to you tomorrow night, buddy."


	25. Data

"Data," he breathes softly, giving me that same look.

I shiver with anticipation as Bruce slowly leans forward and gently touches his lips to mine. They are wonderfully soft and warm. Pulling me closer, he wraps his arms around me and covers my face with tender kisses.

"I love you, Data," he whispers against my lips, and I am suffused with joy. Reflected in his eyes is someone worthy of being loved, someone deserving of adoration, and I know that the someone is finally me.

His hands reverently cup my face and he kisses me with growing passion. In comparison... ah, there is _no_ comparison. The few kisses I have before do not even merit the name. I close my eyes and revel in the new sensations, the new feelings. It is all so overwhelming that I do not notice at first that his lips have grown icy cold.

As I jerk away, blood begins gushing from his mouth. My hands are covered in gore; everywhere I have touched his body, the rapidly hardening flesh cracks open. Redness flows like water, only to freeze on the icy ground. Bruce's face is filled with a terrible confusion as he glances down at his ruined body. His desperate eyes lift to mine, appealing for help, before he topples sideways.

Trying to catch him, I grab for his shoulder but it shatters like glass between my bloody fingers. Horrified, I let go and he falls to the rest of the way, his frozen torso cracking open, his steaming innards spilling out onto the milky ice. Panicking, I try to push the cooling organs back into place, but they keep slipping through my fingers.

"Please," I shriek, not knowing who can assist us, "please, somebody, help us!"

Something heavy strikes me in the back of the head and I fall forward onto Bruce's frozen corpse.

"See what you did?" Ensign Harkins growls as he drags his gruesomely twisted body closer. He flings another iceball, striking me in the chest. "He trusted you, he loved you and you left him to die. _I_ trusted you. We put our lives in your hands and you _killed_ us."

He grabs my wrists and forces my bloody fingers up in front of my face, and screams, " _Look at what you did!_ "

I pull myself free and scramble backwards, away from his rage. "I tried to save you! I did my best!"

I twist away and struggle to get to my feet; the coefficient of friction so low that I can barely keep my balance. Something strikes me from behind and I fly forward, falling on hands and knees onto the ice.

"Shipmate," Tasha says mockingly, as she shifts back into fighting stance. "Always pretending to be so loyal, so fearless. But you let us all down, you coward."

"Tasha, it was not my fault!" I protest, while shadowy figures appear through the thickening snowfall. I recognize the crew members killed in the landing on Veridian III; their angry accusations grew louder and louder, drowning out my denials.

Slipping and skidding, I flee before them. Even when their cries fade into the distance, I keep stumbling sightlessly through the blizzard.

Suddenly someone steps in front of me, blocking my way.

"Why didn't you just get between me and the bullet?" Lieutenant Whalen demands. He knocks me off my feet, onto now-jagged ice. "You knew Redblock was going to have me shot!"

"You did _nothing_ while I died in agony!" Varia shrieks as she shoves past Whalen, throwing herself upon my unresponsive body, clawing viciously at my eyes.

"You just sat there and let Soran kidnap me," cries Geordi, roughly dragging Varria aside. As he bends to heap armloads of snow upon me, I can see the nano-cortical fibers protruding from his skull. "How could you, Data? I'm your best friend!"

An acid, all-too-familiar voice comes from behind me. "Oh, stop sniveling. He screwed me worse than any of you, and I'm his _brother_." He sets his foot heavily on my chest, though I cannot make my body respond to my frantic commands.

As the snow begins to cover my face, Lal's bitter visage looms over me. "Father, why? You would resign from Starfleet to save yourself, but not to save me?" She flings a handful of snow onto my face as if it were gravedirt.

I can hear the others drawing near. My former crewmates jeer as they throw chunks of ice at me. I cannot move, cannot speak. I am being buried alive, my brain crusting over with ice, my body freezing solid...

There is a sudden blast of indescribable heat and pain, so intense that it seems certain that I am being incinerated.

Lore stands over me with phaser in hand, grinning. "No, dear brother, you're the _survivor_. You don't get to die!"

Shrieks of fury rise from the others as they surge forward. Lal is closest; her face a mask of hate as she lunges for me. There is another blast, longer this time, and Lal falls across my chest, a smoking hole burned through her head.

At first I cannot tear my eyes away from my slain daughter, but then the whine of weapons fire begins again. A bright red beam scythes through the angry mob, instantly felling Geordi, Tasha and all the others. The biting wind carries away the fading echoes of their screams.

"Whew, that's a relief," Lore sighs, pocketing the phaser. "I always hated crowds." His eyes glitter maliciously as he wipes his hands on his trousers. "Come on, Data. Stop lollygagging. We've got work to do."

Somehow we are back in my quarters on the _Enterprise_ -D and I stammer, "What-- What--"

Lore raises an eyebrow. "You've always been the tidy one, brother mine. I just want to help you get your mess cleaned up. Now, what should we do with the bodies?" He puts on a mock-thoughtful expression, then snaps his fingers.

As Lore begins tossing the burnt and mangled corpses into my closet, the feeling starts to return to my body. My limbs can move. I catch hold of Lore's arm, trying to make him stop. 

Lore shoves me away and laughs. "Everyone's got a few skeletons in their closet, Data. And look, yours are color coordinated." 

He laughs hysterically as I press my hands to my eyes, trying to shut out the gruesome sight.

"I'm proud of you, son."

"Father?" I jerk my head up, shocked anew.

It was only Lore. He laughs again, and says in his own voice, "You know Father would deactivate you if he was here. But don't worry. _I'm_ proud of you." He starts ticking off events on his fingers. "In just over two weeks, you managed to betray your best friend, vaporize a shipful of Klingons, crash your ship and kill eighteen of your crewmates. And let's not forget the last two. You've even managed to kill off the only person pathetic enough to look twice at you. 

"The best part is, nobody blames you for any of it! You'll probably get another medal. You're good, Data, very good. You've got to tell me how you do it."

I shake my head desperately. "No, Lore, it was the chip. Something is wrong. I could not help it!"

Lore smiles, his teeth showing. "The others might believe that but I don't. I saw you when you blew those Klingons to atoms. You love the taste of blood as much as I do, dear brother. I told you that the chip would make us more alike."

"Noooooooooo!"

Still screaming, I jackknife up into a sitting position, my brother's smug smile seared into my mind.


	26. Data

I thank Counselor M'tana for yet another daily session, and hurry down the hall. The memorial service for Ensign Harkins is set to begin in fifteen minutes.

My emotions are in turmoil, as seems to be my new norm. While I truly do appreciate having names such as "survivor's guilt", "post traumatic syndrome", and "overcompensation" assigned to my reactions so that I can analyze them, I still cannot help but feel resentful. I know that my counselor does not mean to minimize the importance of my feelings -- far from it -- but somehow it feels that way when she labels them.

Sighing as I approach the entrance, I decide that the counselor does not understand how different I am from her usual patients. She simply is not able to see that in light of my greater storage and processing capacity, on top of physical indefatigability, I am in fact culpable for the incidents she discounted.

I enter the chapel and feel the weight of forty-six pairs of eyes fall upon me. I hesitate, ready to turn back, but Commander Riker beckons me forward. As I had during the group service for those killed on Veridian III, I dutifully take my place between the commander and Dr. Crusher.

It is time. Casting a glance at me, Commander Riker ascends to the dais and begins the opening remarks. The room feels oppressively hot and crowded, though objectively speaking, neither perception is accurate. Seeking to distract myself from my unsettled feelings, I ponder my recent experiences with the elastic perception of time. I suppose that I should be pleased that the emotion chip has permitted me this human trait, yet I cannot find any gratitude within me.

I note that the present situation perfectly illustrates the more disagreeable aspects of the phenomenon. The eulogy delivered by Commander Riker had seemed interminable, and now the guests' Remembrances seem unending. Each second takes far longer than the sum of its nanoseconds. Perhaps a mathematical relationship between emotional intensity, the apparent passage of time and its true duration can be developed. I shall have to ask Geordi for advice.

Dr. Crusher nudges me. Startled, I glance at her before a stir amongst the crowd captures my attention. A tearful young woman is stepping down from the podium and people are looking expectantly at me. 

With an unpleasant shock, I realize they want me to speak, though I had not at the group service. I look at the doctor for help, but she only nods encouragingly. 

Somehow I am able to mount the two steps. My hands grip the podium as I search my datastore for some suitable platitude. It takes several eternities.

Trying not to look at the smooth black casket that lies between me and the seated mourners, I haltingly recite words taken from another ceremony, long ago -- how the ensign had been a fine young officer of great promise, and that we should remember him as he had been in life, not in death...

Suddenly my mind fills with the vivid memory of the bloody snow and his grotesquely deformed corpse. As my gaze falls horrorstruck on the casket, I realize that to fit Ensign Harkins inside, they must have had to _thaw_ his twisted body...

A scream begins bubbling up in my chest. I need to get away from him, away from all of the people now whispering to each other. I take a step backward, then halt. My legs are shaking so badly that I cannot trust them to keep me upright if I let go of the podium.

Then Commander Riker is next to me, gripping my forearm. The distorted roaring in my ears grows louder. There is another touch, an arm surrounding me, and I turn blindly toward it. 

Dr. Crusher guides me to our seats. She pushes me on the shoulder once, then again, but harder. Finally I realize that she intends for me to sit.

She slips her hand into mine and mouths, "Data, are you all right?"

Keeping my lips sealed tight against the screams, I nod jerkily.

"It's almost over," Dr. Crusher whispers. "We can leave together in just a few minutes."

Blocking out everything else in the room, I clutch gratefully at the sanity she offers. I close my eyes and concentrate fully on the warm hand in mine, and the reassuring rhythm of the doctor's pulse and the soft, regular sounds of her respiration.

It occurs to me that these are the true measure of time.


	27. Geordi

Just a little over a week into salvage operations, and we've already fallen behind schedule. I'd just finished the regular mid-afternoon remote briefing, which was primarily spent explaining the emergent problems and the proposed solutions to Commander Riker. When he asks for the bottom line, I tell him that I'm pretty confident that we can make up the lost time and hit the original completion date.

He seems satisfied, so I can finally ask what's really on my mind. "How is he?"

I don't need to say who. We both remember how inconsolable Data had been after Spot's cremation, two days earlier. To my relief, the commander and Dr. Crusher had spent the remainder of the day and evening with him.

"Better." Riker's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "At least he's not moping around any more. He's got some wild idea about incorporating one of those new Emergency Medical Holograms into a medkit."

"Yeah, Data told me about it last night. I told him that it's pretty damn ambitious, but that didn't faze him at all," I said, shaking my head fondly. "The technology's nowhere near sophisticated enough to support an EMH on anything under than a Class III processor, much less within the weight and power constraints of a medkit. And then the holoprojector's got to be considered, never mind the ability to independently replicate needed drugs. But you know Data: he doesn't take 'can't be done' for an answer."

This time, the smile was genuine. "So let me guess. He roped you into working on it with him."

"How could I say no? Besides, if anyone can do it, Data can. It'll just take him a little while." At the commander's raised eyebrows, I amend it to, "Okay, a long while."

"Well, it better not take too long. He's driving Beverly crazy."

I groan. "What now? I thought he'd be satisfied with the reference materials she got him the other day."

"No such luck. In addition to all the EMH data, he wants access to the holosurgical training programs. And to observe the real thing. Of course, it's not her place to say yea or nay, not in someone else's Sickbay. Apparently the CMO there has taken a real shine to Data."

Shaking my head in disbelief, I ask, "What's his counselor got to say? If you ask me, Data's taking this way too far. I mean, a portable EMH project is one thing, but this other stuff... it just doesn't seem right for him."

"You're preaching to the choir, but M'tana won't talk to me except in general terms since Data's on light duty, and that much only because the captain's still gone."

I can tell he's wishing Deanna wasn't still away on a mission. Hell, he's not the only one. I would love some tactful hints on the best way to deal with Data. His emotions are so new and changeable that increasingly I'm at a loss to know what to do or say. It's like Data isn't even the same person sometimes. 

Looking annoyed, the commander says, "M'tana insists he needs to regain a feeling of control. It's just going to take some time until he can establish a more balanced perspective."

Now that makes some sense. I'm still thinking about the implications when the commander switches gears.

"Geordi, I got a call from Vice Admiral Haftel this morning. Data's response didn't make him very happy."

Data had forwarded me the message he'd received from the admiral; after some sympathetic words regarding the accident, it had contained a none-too-subtle reminder about Data's orders to the Daystrom Annex. Data's reply had been as polite as always, but his refusal had been unequivocal. 

"The admiral's not taking no for an answer. He's ordered me to effect the transfer immediately. 'It's in the android's best interest', you know," the commander says with distaste.

"You're not really going to make Data go there, are you? Not without me, at least?"

"Neither of you are going. I've bought time by saying the captain would expect me to consult with him, yet he's unfortunately unavailable at the moment on Vulcan. I just need to figure out a diplomatic way to tell the admiral to pound sand. I don't want to burn any bridges, not until you get Data repaired."

"Yeah," I nod, relieved. "We just might need some of Maddox's equipment, if Data can't repair what we salvaged from his lab. The last load we shipped out was in pretty rough shape." I catch his look of concern. "Don't worry, sir. Between the two of us, we'll get that chip fixed."

"I'm counting on it. But listen, Geordi, I've got to go -- meeting with the JAG," he grimaces.

Man, I'm not looking forward to the court-martial either, but it's standard procedure when a ship is lost. At least I've already turned in my preliminary statement, so that's a load off my mind. The next major hurdle is getting all the pertinent logs and data out of the ship's computer, and with the state the memory core is in, that's not going to happen in a hurry.

"Commander?" I ask quickly, as he reaches towards the comm terminal. "Would you mind inviting Data out for the evening with you and the doctor sometime? He really seemed to enjoy that and I hate to think of him spending so much time alone."

"Say no more," he smiles. "I'll see if I can set it up for tonight. Tomorrow for sure. Riker out."


	28. Data

The duty nurse looks up at the sound of my entrance, and smiles. "Oh, hello, sir! I didn't think you were coming tonight. I've been hoping we could talk again."

"Good evening, Nurse Ellis." 

"Won't you please call me Suzanne?" She smiles again and rises from her work desk to approach me.

"Then you must call me Data. How are you this evening, Suzanne?"

We exchange further pleasantries, and she seems particularly interested in a concert to be given this evening. I told her that Commander Riker had spoken highly of the previous night's performance. I remark upon the stylistic differences between the featured composers, but when I assess that Suzanne's interest in that topic is at most only polite, I excuse myself.

She follows me towards Bruce's room. As I enter, I note the faint blue haze of the stasis field remains over his immobile form, as expected. 

I proceed directly to the biostatus screen, having been authorized to access Bruce's records by Commander Ciobanu, the CMO, as part of my new medical studies. I tap at the screen, rapidly skimming through the dozens of indicators, and correlating their meaning into steady decline, even though he is on complete life support. The most encouraging reading pertains to Bruce's heart: its previously sporadic contractions have become regular. 

"Suzanne, how was Bruce's heartbeat stabilized?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. Dr. Mendez had to put in an artificial heart, because Mr. Maddox suffered a myocardial rupture this morning. That damaged right ventricle just gave way. Luckily he was already being prepped for surgery to stabilize the pelvic fractures."

Putting the monitor in replay mode, she points at several indicators as they trace through the day's fluctuations. "See here, and here? Even with all the regen and complete life support, these organs are still failing, and those are starting to necrotize." Suzanne calls up an internal scan, zooming and panning for the best view. "Just look at the rapid deterioration of this right kidney -- Dr. Mendez decided that he'd better get it out while he had him already open."

Suzanne gazes up at me, biting her lip. "The prognosis isn't getting any better, Data. Even if Mr. Maddox survives until the cloned organs are ready, the doctors still don't think your friend will be able to withstand the stress of so many major surgeries. I'm so sorry."

I turn away from her and move quickly to the cryosurgical biobed. I gaze down on his empty face. 

Suzanne comes up next to me and puts her hand on my elbow. "Nobody's giving up, Data. It's just that you have to be prepared in case the worst happens."

I resist the strong urge to say something unkind. Though I know Suzanne means only to blunt what she believes are my unrealistic hopes, I cannot help but feel angry with her. 

"I would like you to leave us alone now," I say as graciously as I can manage. 

While waiting for her footfalls to fade, I turn my attention back to Bruce. Though draped from the upper chest to his knees, he has again been left unclothed to facilitate the constant medical intervention. I notice that the shape of his chest appears somewhat more normal today, even with the continued presence of several tubes and drainage shunts on the right side. 

Under the supportive framework and sterile wrappings that only hint at the extensive crush and blunt force trauma, the fate of Bruce's right-side limbs remains in question. Having seen the scans of the soft tissue damage and numerous joint and limb fractures, many both comminuted and compound, I wonder at the decision of Bruce's parents to reject the recommended amputations. It seems unlikely Bruce himself would object to biosynthetic limb replacement. 

Had amputation proceeded, Dr. Mendez had said that follow-on total hip and shoulder joint replacement surgery would have made attaching the biosynthetic limbs feasible. However, the extensive neurogenic damage Bruce suffered would limit the limbs' utility, given the inadequate transmission of the bio-electric signals necessary for operation. The surgeon was even less sanguine regarding the planned natural limb reconstruction, even assuming cloning or other replacement of unsalvageable bones, ligaments, and the like. The doctors feel it is unlikely he will walk again, or be able to manage without caregivers.

That is not even the worst scenario. While there is brain activity, the doctors have said it is too soon to know how much damage Bruce will ultimately suffer. Only hours have passed in stasis, while days have passed for us. 

As much as possible is being done to minimize the typical traumatic brain injury sequelae: swelling and brain cell apoptosis. Dr. Ciobanu said Bruce's case is particularly complex since he suffered not only blunt force trauma, coup and contrecoup injuries, diffuse axonal shearing, ischemia, vascular damage and the resultant hematomas, but also extended low grade hypoxia and reduced perfusion due to low blood pressure, which hampered oxygen and waste product transport. 

Yet those negatives are offset by an experimental medication, plus the extra oxygen I provided by injecting Bruce regularly with tri-ox, my unique ability to indefinitely perform effective CPR and hence adequate, if minimal, blood flow, and the protective nature of hypothermia on post-TBI cell apoptosis and autophagy of neurons and glial cells. In short, as Dr. Ciobanu said, we will not know until Bruce has been tested.

Even if his intellect is intact, he may suffer lingering neurologically based issues. Memory loss is only one possible outcome; emotional lability, irritability, anxiety and depression -- even paranoia and hallucinations -- are also frequently seen outcomes. Then there are the likely post-TBI seizures to consider, as well as a risk that Bruce may develop post-traumatic epilepsy.

All those concerns are critical, of course, but what I really wish to know is whether Bruce will remember that I tried my best to help him. Will he blame me for the accident, and his feelings turn to hatred?

As I shift my gaze to Bruce's face, I wish I could touch him, even if only to provide a comforting pat, but the stasis field makes any contact impossible. I remind myself that they are deliberately keeping Bruce hypothermic; I would find his flesh as cold and revolting to the touch as it had been in the cave.

Then I am struck again, as I was in the runabout, by how much more selfish I have become, now that I have emotions. While of course I want Bruce to get well, part of it is that I want more time with him. I think we would be compatible. At least once in my life, I would like to know what it is to be loved. I would like to know what it is like to be touched with love, rather than induced lust. 

I decide that the best way to overcome my selfishness is to be mindful of the flaw, and endeavor to perform daily unselfish acts for others, particularly those I care for. But what can I do for Bruce in his current state?

Almost instantly it comes to me. Bruce looks disheveled. Not only is his face heavily stubbled, his surprisingly wavy hair is uneven on the right side, where it had been regenerated after emergency neurosurgery. Prior to this, Bruce's dark hair had always been combed flat and parted crisply to the side. In fact, in our past encounters, I had never seen him with so much as a hair out of place. I feel sure he would not like his present standard of grooming, nor being seen partially unclothed.

I resolve to speak with Dr. Ciobanu about it. Surely the station's barber can pay Bruce a visit, or in the worst case, I can easily learn to perform the necessary human grooming techniques. At a minimum, I will ensure that Bruce's body is always fully draped to provide complete coverage.


	29. Geordi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Geordi makes a mistake.

Wearily propping my head on my hand, I stare at the blank blue screen, waiting for Data to answer my hail. To avoid more missed calls, I've been comming him at the same time each night for the past week or so. Since then, this is the first time he's hasn't answered right away. I'm wiped out after a particularly grueling day, but I figured I'd wait for him a little while longer before heading off to bed.

"Geordi!"

I open my bleary eyes. Blue changes to operations-yellow as Data's torso fills the viewscreen. Then Data is sitting, an unusually bright aura surrounding his excited face.

"Hello, my best friend! I am very sorry that I am late, but I was in Sickbay! Dr. Mendez had some extra time to talk to me tonight. Bruce's first organ replacement surgery has been a success!"

I couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise if I tried, so I just let Data babble on. I try to be happy about it for Data's sake. Evidently it'll still be a while before the weasel is out of danger, but from what Data says, the medical team is much more optimistic after successfully getting the first few cloned organs in.

When Data pauses for a second, I jump in quickly. "That's just great but Data, I can't stay on long tonight. I've really got to get some sleep. I just wanted to know how things are going in the lab."

Data waves a hand dismissively. "I have been too busy today! As I told you, I was in Sickbay and--"

"Yeah, Data," I interrupt. "We did that part already. So when are you going to work on the nanofabricator? I mean, we need to know if we've got to ask Haftel for the one out of Maddox's lab, or not."

"I know. I will work on it tomorrow." He smiles brilliantly. "How was your day?"

"Ten hours in a radiation suit, if that tells you anything. Fifteen minutes of sonics and I still feel like I stink to high heaven." I sigh tiredly; tomorrow is going to be more of the same. "Nayht was running his mouth instead of paying attention. Ripped his suit, ripped his leg -- totally contaminated himself."

Data starts rattling off first aid procedures. Belatedly realizing my mistake, I hold up my hand. "Data..."

No luck; he keeps right on going.

"DATA!"

He freezes midsentence, his eyes flicking nervously.

"Nayht will be fine, okay? We sent him up to the _Farragut_ and they took good care of him right away. He'll be back on full duty in two days. Don't get yourself all worked up over nothing."

"What if you should be injured next time? Perhaps I should come to Veridian III." He begins nodding rapidly to himself. "Yes. Yes. I will leave right away. There are too many dangers. It is not safe for you to be without me. Geordi, I will be there as soon as I can. Do not worry."

" _You're_ what's worrying me, Data. You've got to stop obsessing about my safety. About everyone's, actually."

He blinks rapidly. "But I could not bear it if you were hurt, Geordi. I could not. What if you were to die? How would I live without you?" Tears start spilling down his cheeks.

"Oh, Data," I say softly, my heart too full of a now-familiar ache. "I'll be careful. I promise."

But that's not enough, of course. Data sobs helplessly for over an hour before I'm able to get him to calm down. 

I can't say I wasn't crying half the time myself. It's truly awful, watching Data's heart break as he realizes, really _feels_ for the first time, that he will lose every single person he cares about, again and again and again and _again_ , over his indefinite lifespan. 

Sure, we talk about finding love -- I mention my hopes for Leah. We talk about time well spent with family and friends. For the rest of us, those relationships are enough for a good life, but it's going to be so different for Data. He is going to have to cope with an unthinkable amount of loss, and there's not a damn thing I, or anyone else, can do about that.


	30. Bruce

I think I'm dreaming, but it seems too real to be a normal dream, and way too weird to be reality. Maybe it's a hallucination. 

Real or not, some sort of shining spirit is manifesting over me. An angel or a Hindu _deva_ \-- I'm not sure which. I blink a couple times, and then squeeze my eyes shut tight for five seconds or so, then cautiously open my eyes.

Still there. Shit.

He's so much taller than any human, with the radiant path behind him almost blindingly bright, creating an aura around his silhouette. 

It occurs to me that I've seen the spirit sometime before, because I remember wondering then why he didn't have the usual angel wings, if Mom's religion is right, or the three-wheeled chariot drawn by white horses, if Diya is right. 

I guess it doesn't really matter. Or maybe it does. Maybe if I can't identify the spirit correctly, I either go to hell or transmigrate down into a bug for my next turn on the Wheel. Although it's never made any sense to me why a loving god would set things up like that. 

So perhaps it's best to think about all this logically. Perhaps it's significant that the mode of transportation is still missing. Is there any other way to distinguish... oh, I know! If the spirit is Diya's beloved white-skinned Soma, where's his fancy crescent-moon hat? Where's his mace? 

So the spirit must be an angel. Or maybe an archangel. No idea how to tell those apart. Bigger wings? Possibly jewelry or a sword or who knows what. I don't think angels do the fancy hat thing like Hindu deities. 

But, logic again, why would I rate an archangel? I don't subscribe to any particular sect; I'm theistic in the general sense that it's always felt like _someone_ ought to be in charge. So I probably just have the standard guardian angel that Mom says everyone is supposed to get. 

I might as well clear up some things while I have the chance. "Could Shadow see you up in the corners of the ceiling?"

"I do not think so," the angel allows. 

"And you use feathers?"

"No, I do not."

"Round stones?"

"No."

"Red birds? Frogs?"

"No."

Oh, Mom's going to be ticked to find out that she's totally wrong about angelsign. Then it occurs to me to maybe I won't get to see her: what if the angel has come as my escort to heaven? I don't think I'm dying, but would I even know? I won't mind it too much if I am, because Mihir will be there. He'll _have_ to be there for it to be any kind of heaven I'd want. But what do people do when they find out a loved one is in hell? Heaven can't possibly be heaven if someone you love is being tortured forever.

It's all so very confusing. On the good side, nothing hurts. I'm just very tired. Still, before I die, there's one thing I really want to know. Flying would have been so cool. "So what happened to your wings?" 

"I have never had wings."

Batting 0 for 6 doesn't really bode well for mom's church. Still, Mom seems to be spot on about this part and it's arguably a lot more important than the other stuff. I look past him, into the bright pathway behind him that's haloing his dark hair. It's hard to tell, but the journey to the light looks really long. Steep, too. Still, not to seem ungrateful about getting an escort, I try to sit up. The angel puts a restraining hand on my shoulder, but the attempt has already shown me that I simply don't have the strength.

"I really think you better go ask for some," I advise him. 

The angel just laughs softly, pats my shoulder, and tells me to go to sleep.

*****

I don't remember much about those first days. Just vague impressions, really. Bright lights in my eyes. People leaning over me. Voices fading in and out. I was so tired and confused that I'd fall back asleep before I could make sense of anything.

Now I realize I was in the aftermath of a series of organ replacement surgeries, followed by early reconstruction work. From what I've been told, I'd spent more than a week drifting in and out.

I suppose they'd told me what had happened more than once, so that when I finally began to retain it from one waking to the next, there was this weird sense of _deja vu_. Not that I remember the accident itself, or even being on a planet. I just have a general sense that something had gone wrong on the runabout, something about needing to land. I'm not sure if it's coming from my own experience or from half-remembered things someone has mentioned. At any rate, the doctor said I probably wouldn't regain any more memory of what had occurred.

He also told me not to worry about the numbness on my right side; I'll be having more reconstructive surgery in coming days. He said something about months of intense daily physical and occupational therapy. None of that sounded very good, but I was already too tired to ask any questions. 

The second day, they allow me to have messages and some brief visits. The starbase CO stops by to drop off a paddful of messages. It takes a while, given the exasperating clumsiness of my left hand but I finally get the padd to work, albeit with constant do-overs. The first message is from my parents, which turns out to be pretty much what I expect: Mom harping on god's will and my sinful golden idol, and Dad trying to change the topic. I can tell he's thinking he'd taught me better than to get myself nearly killed by something so foreseeable. 

The next communique is rougher. I hadn't thought to update my next of kin after the divorce, so Diya had been notified. It's been years since we last talked, so it was nice of her to comm well wishes. But however unintentionally, it's upsetting to have my nose rubbed in how much better her life is without me. Diya is just as gorgeous as ever, and she looks so radiantly happy with her husband and their little girl. Obviously she changed her mind about having another child. Aside from the longer hair and tiny black _bindi_ , little Ahana looks so very much like our Mihir did at that age that I can't help but break down.

Eventually I manage to pull myself back together. Even had I known what to say, I'm much too exhausted to even think of answering either message. I set the padd aside for another day, along with the unread comms from Daystrom and various colleagues and friends. 

Just then Commander Riker stops by. Protocol, no doubt, and his well-wishes even sound sincere. I figure it's the diplomacy training that's part and parcel of being First Officer on Starfleet's flagship. Still, he makes an effort, so I do too. I don't think I last five minutes before falling asleep.

*****

The doctor had just left, after a round of tests and questions that left me wiped out again, when Data comes in.

The nurse had already told me that I would have died if it weren't for him, so when Data immediately starts apologizing for missing me earlier in the day, I won't have any of it. I guess it's kind of funny, both of us getting choked up. Me, inarticulately grateful to see for myself that he is all right, and Data trying to be modest.

If I had any energy, I would argue with him. I mean, he saved my life. Instead I give up on trying to talk and simply listen to the sound of his voice. With an absurd amount of effort, I manage to get my eyelids open when I feel his fingers curl around mine. He smiles that incredible little smile and I stop fighting sleep, and just let his wonderful voice carry me away.

*****

After they finish the worst of the reconstructive surgery, I graduate from being flat on my back to being moved into a powered support chair several times a day. I get strapped in, since I don't have the strength to hold myself in place. Merely sitting up is depressingly exhausting. I can't feel anything much in my right leg, but my right arm is even worse. It looks more or less normal, but it just hangs there, completely useless.

Dr. Mendez, my surgeon, explained that because I'd been so critically injured, he'd had to leave the reconstruction for last. As a result of the delay, treatment of the neural trauma was, as he put it, problematic. My left side is going to be mildly impacted by issues resulting from the right-brain injuries, but the delayed attention to the crushed and discontinuous nerves throughout my right limbs and joints is apparently a major complication. 

When I ask for details, the doctor gives me a goddamn dissertation. Something to do with Wallerian degeneration of the axons, poor macrophage activity and Schwann cells not forming bands of Boongner? Insufficent neurotrophic generation? Uh huh. Chromatolysis and endoplasmic reticulum dispersion? I nod as he infodumps but honestly, I don't have any real idea what it means. I'll have to try to remember all the terms so I can read up on it when I'm feeling a little better.

Still, Dr. Mendez holds out some hope. He made it clear that so far the nerve conductance results were very poor, but several of my many medications should help restart and also speed up nerve reinnervation.

In the meantime, he tells me that I'll be starting intensive daily physical and occupational therapies. Setting aside re-training my left hand for routine tasks like shaving, toothbrushing and dressing myself, there are countless other skills I'll have to relearn once I've built up some core strength. First I'll work on being able to sit unassisted and regaining basic proprioception for things like foot placement. All of that and much more was in preparation for being able to stand with assistance, with the hope being that in a week or two I'd be able to get in and out of my support chair or bed with minimal assistance.

For the short term, the doctor was going to fit me with motor-assist bands, which are a kind of bioelectric amplifier. The bad news is that during this process, pain meds are out; I need to be able to feel the few signals getting through the damaged nerve pathways. Eventually Dr. Mendez plans to implant neural transducers into my right arm and leg. Plus, over the next year or so, my nerves would naturally build some new linkages on their own. 

To be sure, Mendez threw in plenty of percentages and disclaimers, but I focus firmly on the the possibilities instead of the negatives. Mind over matter, as they say. If I just work hard enough, I'll be all right. 

*****

Being so completely helpless is constant humiliation. I can't get in and out of my support chair without help, can't take a shower by myself, or even try to use the bathroom by myself. Mercifully, the biobed and support chair automatically take care of the incontinence from the nerve damage in my sacrum. Having to have a pair of nurses inject muscle-contracting drugs, undress me, and lower me onto a toilet so I can try to learn how to crap voluntarily or even take a piss -- sitting down, for fuck's sake -- is unbearable. 

When I found out each of the Sickbay holodecks is programmed with assorted holotherapists, and can accommodate things like bathing and toileting, I told Dr. Mendez that I didn't want the nurses doing my therapy or personal care any more. I'd had my fill of carefully blank faces. Being naked and helpless in front of the staff was horrible enough; the way the new motor-assist bands made my arm and especially leg randomly twitch and flop around is downright disgusting, never mind what that annoying counselor says.

The obligatory counseling sessions came right after morning therapy, and the rest of the day was just as well-orchestrated. After counseling was lunch, or trying to eat with my persistently clumsy left hand: burritos and sandwiches quickly became my go-to to avoid the mess and humiliation of clothes soiled with dribbles. Sometimes Dr. Mendez would join me, otherwise he'd visit me in the early afternoon and put me through whatever tests he wanted that day. Then the muscle regen / retraining and nerve stimulation treatments, and the mercy of a nap.

Then it's back to the holodeck for afternoon therapy, followed up by a shower, an early dinner, yet another repetitive motion / neuroplasticity session, and an evening holodeck session focused on range of motion work and finally holomassage to try to help with the increasingly frequent painful muscle spasms.

At least after that, my time was my own. Data would stop by every night and we'd talk for as long as I could manage to stay awake. We discussed repairs on the equipment in the lab he was building, his ideas for a portable holoprojector, his chip, recent _Cybernetics Journal_ articles, specs for the new _Enterprise_ , news out of the Gamma Quadrant, everything.

Well, not everything. Not what happened on the planet; when I'd finally gotten some of the gory details, I had tried to thank Data again, but I could see that it upset him too much so I dropped it. Actually, we didn't talk about the annex either, but that was a moot point. There is nothing I can do about what, if anything, is going on at Daystrom. 

Data makes these long, grueling days worthwhile. I'm getting more individual time with him in a day than I'd managed to accumulate during most years. Given how paranoid I'd been around him before, it's odd how comfortable I am starting to feel around him, even when he persists in holding my hand each night when he talks to me as I doze off.

I know Data only means to be comforting, nothing more. I suppose I should be upset that the neurogenic damage has left me dysfunctional, but in truth it's a relief to know that my body can't betray any attraction to Data.


	31. Bruce

Tuesday, I'm feeling pretty good after evening massage, so I decide to jump ahead to the walking holoprogram and give it a try. I've made a lot of progress in the last week or so; even if I don't have much in the way of balance or proprioception, or even strength to rise sit-to-stand, I can at least momentarily stay standing, albeit with assistance. Dr. Mendez keeps pushing back the schedule for walking, wanting me to spend more time on the underlying skills and to build more strength and flexibility because of some test result or other. Well, I'm tired of this stupid plateau. Maybe pushing past it will get the progress going again.

So here I am, holding onto the wooden bar with my relatively good hand, trying to make my stubbornly stupid right leg move forward on command. It hurts like hell. How the nerves manage to hurt so much and yet still refuse to react properly is something I don't understand. Dr. Mendez has tried to explain but I can't seem to put it all together. I'm going to have to bone up on the peripheral nervous system -- everything from nocioceptors, nerve fiber sheathing types, Schwann cells, and the like -- when I'm not so damned tired and mindfogged all the time.

"That's so good," the perky holomasseuse/ therapist gushes as my right leg jerks forward a few centimeters with the help of the motor assist bands. The blonde beams a fake smile at me. "How wonderful! Now try to straighten your foot. You can do it!"

I glare at it, but it's oblivious and keeps on yapping.

"Whoops! I've got you! Don't worry, I won't let you fall. Go on, try again!"

And yapping.

"Yes, Bruce! That's it. Oh, splendid! Now try--"

"Would you just shut the hell up!" I finally yell at it.

The hologram just stands there, blinking its dead eyes. Then it starts in again. "I understand your anger, Bruce. It's natural to feel discouraged and upset. Why don't we--"

"Dammit, computer, delete therapist!"

It vanishes. Muttering angrily to myself, I drag my right leg forward a centimeter or so, and then again. Without the hologram there to support and steady me, I fall several times in quick succession. Of course the program doesn't let me hurt myself: the floor softens momentarily so that it's sort of like falling onto a bed.

Even when the floor reverts, getting back up again with only cooperation of one arm and one leg is tough, really tough. After the fourth time, I just lay on the floor, catching my breath. I'm considering calling back Singring or Sigrid or whatever the hell its name is, when the door whooshes open.

"Can I help you?" Ellis says, coming over to kneel at my side. The nurse has that patronizing little smirk, the same one she used earlier when she wouldn't let me have any coffee. How the hell am I supposed to stay awake without any help? If I can keep my eyes open until 2100 lately, it's a damn miracle.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'd like to rest for a few minutes, if that's all right with you."

"Oh," Ellis says, rising to her feet. "Don't you want your holotherapist?"

I force down some choice words, and instead say, "No, I don't. That's actually why I deactivated it. Now, if you don't mind?" I make a little shooing motion with my good hand. There's no way I want her to see me flopping around, trying to get up.

She just stands there.

"Well?" I say, staring at her challengingly.

Her face gets red and then she huffs out.

I sigh and get back to work. It takes all of my concentration and some help from my good arm to get my right leg to bend, so I can get myself more or less on my knees, reach up to the bar and drag myself upright with my good arm. By the time I manage to shuffle forward a half-meter, I'm sweating through my clothes, even though I've only got on a tee and shorts.

"Hello, Bruce. You--"

Startled, I wipe out. Data hurries over and effortlessly hauls me up, apologizing profusely. 

"It's okay," I say, horribly embarrassed.

"I did not mean to disturb your concentration. May I assist you?"

Not wanting him to see how uncoordinated I am, I think about stopping. Then I realize he'll think I'm a quitter, and that's even worse. "Thanks, but I don't need any help."

"But--"

I pull away, grabbing at the walker bar. Bracing against it while I hop on my good foot, I manage to turn around so that I'm facing away from Data. Gritting my teeth against the pain, with a huge effort I manage to drag my right leg forward.

"Bruce, I do not want you to fall. You may injure yourself."

"I won't fall."

So of course I do, about a minute later. Data springs forward to help me up. Telling him the floor gets very soft, I brush off his concerns and start again.

He watches silently while I manhandle myself perhaps a meter, though I'm admittedly cheating by taking larger steps with my left leg. I know Data doesn't have all day to waste on me.

"How much more do you plan to do this evening?"

Grateful for an excuse to stop, I lean on the bar at look at the two meters or so remaining. Sweat is pouring down my face and with nothing else available, I wipe the back of my good hand across my forehead, and then on my sweaty shirt. 

"All the way to the end," I say. That's where I had the holotherapist put my powered support chair before I started, when I thought this was going to be a whole lot easier.

"Here." Data picks up a towel and comes closer. He starts patting my face and neck with it. It's strange, in a way, how gentle Data is, but then he has always been so careful with that incredible strength of his. I mean, I know the constant awareness is deliberately built into his software, but I just think there's more to it than that. 

As casually as I can, I ask, "So how'd things go in the lab? Did you get the new parts in the cortical analyzer?" He nods so I ask, "And the nanofabricator, is it still intermittent?"

I keep nodding as he details how he finally figured out the cause of the intermittent problem. It gets harder and harder to both focus and stay standing up; I'm so damn tired. I wish I'd been realistic enough to have the holotherapist set my chair to the halfway point. 

Well, wishing won't get me any closer. I close my eyes, gathering my strength for another step, but immediately start to sway with vertigo. Another thing I have to always keep in mind: I haven't any balance at all without visual cues. 

"Are you all right?" Data ducks under the nearest bar and moves behind me, slipping his hands under my armpits. My sweat-sodden shirt must feel disgusting to him, and to top it all off, I'm sure I stink.

"You don't need to hover," I say, embarrassed yet again. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen a disabled person in my entire life, and still have fingers left over. 

"I know that, but I wish to, nonetheless." Data hesitates. "Do you object to my presence?"

 _Why, no, Data, I particularly enjoy looking like some kind of pathetic freak_ , I think.

What I say is, "Of course not. You know I want to know how things are progressing in the lab."

After a moment, he starts detailing the status of each piece of equipment. After I manage another step, I stop, both to take a breather and to concentrate on what he's saying.

"I really don't like that damaged chip, Data. Something could go wrong. It really should have been out weeks ago."

Data sighs. "I have told you before, I am functioning within acceptable parameters. I am more concerned for you."

I smile grimly as I look at the remaining length of the bar. It hadn't looked anywhere near this long when I was in the chair, but walking used to be something I could do without any conscious thought. Now the far end of the bar seems like the far end of the universe. 

I twist partway so I can look over my shoulder towards Data. "Don't be. I'll be fine. I assure you, I don't intend to be like this forever." Of course my stupid sweaty hand has to choose that moment to slip on the bar so that I pitch suddenly forward.

In the next instant, Data has swooped me up. I'm cradled in those strong arms and he's looking at me with those huge expressive golden eyes, his face just centimeters from mine. 

I have never seen anyone look half so kissable in my entire life.

As I gaze up into his eyes, about a million crazy thoughts race through my mind. About just moving those couple of centimeters closer, about wrapping my good arm around his neck and kissing him for all I'm worth. In any cheesy romantic holo, the music would start rising right about then, dramatically crescendoing as I'm drawn closer and closer, as helpless as a wayward asteroid caught in a gravity well.

Oh, right.

This isn't a holo. I'm sweaty and stinky and I'm completely and totally out of my mind if I think that Data thinks of me that way. If I profess my undying love, he'll toss me aside like an overloading phaser and bolt out of the room at warp ten.

Envisioning it, I start to laugh.

All right, it's more of a hysterical giggle. Nervous tension, I suppose.

Data's eyebrows are drawn together. "Are you all right?"

I burst out laughing and he looks at me like he's wondering if I've lost my mind. 

I say, "Yeah, Data, I am," which starts me outright howling with laughter when I realize I've answered both questions.

"Oh, just put me down," I finally manage to gasp out.

His head jerks. "But... but... I thought..."

I wait, but he doesn't finish. So I tap him on the arm to remind him I want to get down. His grip loosens and he lets my legs slide to the floor. 

With a great deal of effort and complaints from my hip and thigh muscles, I get both feet under me and my good hand on the bar so that I'm mostly standing on my own. "Ready?"

"Ready for what?" Data looks more bewildered than ever.

"A walk, Data. Ready to go for a walk?"

"But you..." he begins, gesturing helplessly at the bars. 

I give in. "All right, all right. Help me, will you?"

Even though I'm tired and hurt all over, I strike out for the far end of the bars with Data's strong, sure hands supporting me.

And it's all right. Not long ago, this simple touch would have put me in orbit, but now I can accept it for the purely friendly gesture it is. I'm going to get over this ridiculous infatuation with him, after all.


	32. Data

In short order, I am supporting nearly all of Bruce's weight. He seems too fatigued to continue, but despite my protests, he insists on completing the full length.

He has just stopped for yet another rest when my concerns are borne out. Suzanne appears, evidently alerted by the holodeck sensors, and indicates to me that Bruce should be laid down where he is. Despite his protests, I carefully ease him down into a supine position on the padded floor. His thin chest heaves from exertion.

Suzanne scolds, "Now you've gone and overstressed your hip, and after all that time Dr. Mendez spent putting it back together!" 

She prods at several locations on his right hip, making him grunt in pain. "Hurts, doesn't it? I told you that you should use the holotherapist."

"And I told you I don't like holograms," Bruce retorts between clenched teeth as she begins scanning.

"Well, we'll just see what Dr. Mendez has to say about all this," Suzanne replies, before turning her glare on me. "I thought _you_ had more sense than to let him strain himself like this."

"I am sorry, Suzanne. You are right." I rise to retrieve Bruce's support chair. 

"Oh, so you're taking her side?"

"Yes. She is correct. You are not yet strong enough to tolerate such taxing exercise. If you dislike holograms, I am sure a human therapist could be scheduled."

"I don't want that either!" Bruce awkwardly pushes himself up on one arm to a sitting position.

Suzanne shrugs as she begins playing the deep regeneration beam over his hip and thigh. We both know he is merely being obstinate. He is going to have to accept assistance. 

Perhaps there is a way, at least for the evening session. In the years since the hearing, Bruce has often sought out any opportunity to spend time with me. I kneel by his side and slip an arm around his shoulders to support him. "Bruce, what if I were to assist you?"

He frowns. "I'm sure you have better things to do. I can manage on my own."

I feel hurt by his disinterest, but cover it with a smile. "I suspect Dr. Mendez will no longer permit that. Besides, I would enjoy assisting you."

"Are you sure?" His eyes search mine. "It's okay? You really don't mind?"

"Yes, yes, and no."

The medical recorder beeps: the final scan is finished. I lean towards Suzanne and observe that the readout indicates tissue repairs are complete. However, I notice that she looks less than pleased -- her face is flushed and her lips are tightly pressed together. I glance at Bruce, who shakes his head slightly and rolls his eyes.

"Suzanne, is something wrong?" I ask.

"No, sir. Excuse me, sir." She gets to her feet and stalks out.

I rise to follow her but Bruce says, "Forget it, Data. She's mad at me, not you."

I turn around and wait for an explanation. 

Bruce rubs the back of his neck. "Look, she and I... well, we don't really get along."

"Suzanne seems to be a very pleasant person."

"Let's just say we got into it earlier when she wouldn't let me have any coffee."

"She is correct. You should not."

"Don't _you_ start on me, too."

"The alkaloid compounds will interfere with your enzyme therapy." I know, although he does not, that Dr. Mendez is very concerned about tachyphylaxis -- Bruce's rapidly dwindling response to the powerful neuroregenerative medication. Before telling him, the doctor had wanted to search all the literature and case studies for possible ways to improve Bruce's sensitivity, but it seems he will need to address the issue with Bruce sooner rather than later if coffee is going to be such a point of contention. 

Bruce scoots himself towards his support chair, and struggles to pull himself up. I step quickly forward, my hands outstretched in case he should fall against the frame. "Please be careful."

His furious expression stops me from touching him. 

"Despite what everyone seems to think, I'm not a complete invalid," he snaps. He drags himself awkwardly up into his chair. "And if I want to have a cup of coffee, I'm damn well going to have it, whether you or anyone else likes it." 

He slaps at the support chair's controls with his lone functional hand to start it moving forward. "Computer, end program."

The Sickbay holodeck reverts to its yellow and black grid. I follow his chair back to his room. Still visibly upset, Bruce says nothing more to me, as he piles a clean shirt, towel, and washcloth into his lap and disappears into the adjoining head. 

Outwardly busy at the computer console, I attempt to sort out my chaotic feelings. I do not understand his anger with me over a beverage, even such a highly favored one, not when he had looked at me while such intensity when I had picked him up. The dizzying heat of his body pressed against mine was like nothing I have felt heretofore. The intensity of our eye contact was... indescribable. Certain than Bruce was going to kiss me, for a long breathless moment I had waited for him to do so.

But he had not. He had suddenly laughed, as if my proximity was inconsequential. But no, the look in his eyes just moments before could not have been indifference. Could it? But if it had not, why was he so angry with me?

My thoughts are interrupted when the door to the head finally slides open. Bruce rolls towards the bed, his shoulders slumped.

"Bruce, I am sorry."

His head jerks up. "Data! I -- I didn't think you'd still be here." His face falls. "I'm the one that needs to apologize."

"It is my fault. I should--"

"No, Data, it was my fault. You didn't deserve to get your head bitten off."

I access my datastore, trying decipher what is obviously a colloquialism. I can venture a guess from the context, but there is no equivalent expression in any of the languages with which I am familiar.

His chuckle attracts my attention. "Caught you, did I? I meant, I didn't have to jump down your throat." He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't have to go supernova?"

I had heard Commander Riker use the latter expression to describe a Ferengi barkeeper's reaction when the commander had won triple down dabo. "Ah. You are saying that you overreacted."

"Yes, well, I've a bit of a short temper." He looks sheepish. 

"Really? I had not noticed." I meant it teasingly, to match his earlier tone, but he takes my reply seriously.

"Too true, I'm afraid. My staff says I'm worse than an Andorian."

The comparison to that highly-focused but easily irritated race is humorously apt. I must not hide my amusement very well because Bruce adds, "Especially when I don't get my coffee."

"Now you are measuring the length of my temper," I reply with a mock frown. 

Whatever retort he was going to make is lost in a yawn. 

"You should rest now," I say, struck by guilt for having delayed the recuperative rest he sorely needs.

"Long day," he agrees. Repositioning his chair next to his biobed, Bruce eyes it, then the floor, and then reluctantly looks at me.

Taking the cue rather than make him ask for help, I step forward and slip one arm beneath his bare legs and another behind his back. After lifting him into the bed, I pull up the coverlet.

"Good night, Bruce." I carefully smooth the cover across his chest. The warmth of his body is pleasing.

He catches my wrist. "Stay a little while? Please?" His voice drops. "I like it when you talk to me."

"All right. What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything. It doesn't matter, whatever you--" Another huge yawn overtakes him.

"For a few minutes, then." I consider what seem to be the main topics of discussion on the starbase. "Tensions in the Bajoran sector are rising. A new series of Maquis attacks have put the Federation-Cardassian treaty in further jeopardy."

Despite Bruce's obvious interest in the latest report from Deep Space 9 and the increasing likelihood of war with the mysterious Dominion, his eyelids keep drifting closed then jerking half-open again.

I pause my monologue. "Bruce, it is late. Sleep now."

"Thanks," he mumbles, and squeezes my fingers. "You're a good friend."

As I gaze down at the hand in mine, I unhappily mull over his wording. Even with my new emotions, it is still hard for me at times to understand humans. Perhaps it is even more difficult now that I have my own reactions to cloud my analysis. Bruce confuses me. At times he seems distant, the next moment companionably joking, and then in the next instant, he transfixes me with an intense look that makes me feel strangely warm all over.

Uneasily, I recall the kind of insanity that had come over me in the snow. Perhaps my perceptions of Bruce's actions had been just as badly distorted. It is likely that he had been delirious with shock and pain, or perhaps he had thought I was someone else entirely. Perhaps he had merely been thirsty and was only trying to capture any water droplets that might have clung to my fingertips.

Exiting his room quickly, I brush past Suzanne with a murmured goodnight. I stride towards my room, beleaguered by a hundred explanations that seem more likely than anyone falling in love with me.


	33. Geordi

"So what is it now with him?"

On the small screen, Commander Riker shakes his head in frustration. "He won't say, Geordi. I really don't know how to deal with these wild mood swings. There's just no reasoning with him sometimes."

"Don't I know it," I commiserate. "Last night he called me, really upset, and then when I asked him what was wrong, he started crying and told me I wouldn't understand. So I told him to _make_ me understand, but he still wouldn't tell me."

"He seemed okay at lunch today."

"Well, that's something. I guess. He was really a mess last night, though. I'm really worried about him."

"Me too, but what more can we do? Either Beverly or I are spending time with Data every day. You talk to him every night. I've tried getting something out of that counselor of his, but she just says he doesn't feel safe expressing some of his new feelings. We're supposed to wait, and be supportive and nonjudgmental."

I slump back in my chair. "I'm tired of waiting. And what's with this "not feeling safe" stuff? I've told Data he can tell me anything, but it doesn't do any good." I blow out an exasperated breath. "I know he can't help it, and I'm really trying to understand, but it's so hard to figure out what to say. I'm just guessing all the time. I don't know what's going on in his head anymore."

Hesitating for a moment, I finally admit, "I know it's a rotten thing to say, but sometimes I almost wish I had the old Data back. It's bad enough seeing him so upset, but it's worse not knowing how to help him. You know?"

The commander runs his fingers through his hair. "I do. I keep telling myself that this is just a phase he's going through, that he's growing as a person and having all kinds of unfamiliar feelings that he has to work through with our support. Still, I can't wait til Deanna comes back. She'll know what to do to help him through this."

"So how's the diplomacy going?" I ask hopefully. 

"To make a long story short, badly. Yesterday one of the Llurjin tried to poison the Alkich ambassador, who claimed blood rights." He shakes his head, evidently lost in thought over distant power struggles. Then a little smile quirks the corner of the mouth.

"So, what _else_ did Deanna have to say?"

Commander Riker's smile broadens as he strokes his beard. "Let's just say she really seems to miss me."

I have to chuckle. Since Deanna and Worf broke it off, she and the commander have been eyeing each other again. I've never seen such an on-again off-again pair as those two. Except for the captain and Dr. Crusher, that is. Why some people can't just admit they're crazy about each other is beyond me. 


	34. Data

As we clear away the remnants of the excellent meal Commander Riker had prepared, I notice him exchange a long look with Dr. Crusher. My heart starts to sink. At least, I believe that is how this disagreeable sensation is described. 

After we all sat back down, Dr. Crusher was the first to speak. "Data, we want to talk with you about something that's going to be difficult to hear. But we think it's very important for your wellbeing that we talk about it."

"What is it?"

"We don't think it's wise for you to pursue medical training right now."

"Why? Dr. Ciobanu and Dr. Mendez have both said that they think I will make an excellent physician."

"That's not the issue," Commander Riker says. "We know you would make a great doctor. The question is whether you should pursue it right now. We just think it's too soon for you to make a big decision like this."

I focus on Dr. Crusher. "Dr. Mendez has agreed to sponsor my academic work while I am on the starbase. Therefore, I will only require your assistance in later coursework and in proctoring my simulations."

"Data, there's no guarantee that Starfleet Medical is going to accept your proposed plan of study. It's completely unprecedented."

"I am sure that with your support, the decision will be favorable. "

The doctor frowns. "What if it isn't? Are you prepared to leave the _Enterprise_ and transfer to medical school?"

"That will not be necessary. I am capable of accomplishing all required courses remotely."

"It's not just the academic work. You need the daily interaction with other students. You need to participate in treating live patients, not just run a bunch of holoprograms."

"When I am off-shift, I will report to Sickbay for training. Will that suffice?"

"Come on, Data," Commander Riker interjects. "You can't do that. You work too many hours as it is. You need time to relax, to rest."

"Though I have indulged myself in the past, I do not require relaxation or rest."

Again they exchange a look. The commander sighs. "You may not need it physically, but mentally? Emotionally? You have to admit, you've been under a lot of stress lately. We're not saying 'no' forever. We just feel that you have to give yourself some time--"

"Delay is not acceptable." Why do they not understand? The horrific memories of away missions and accidents, complete in every gruesome detail, rise up to choke me, day and night... all the times people have been wounded and I have been insufficiently prepared to care for them. I feel tears gathering in my eyes, but I remind myself sternly that I am finished with weeping. Proper training is the only sensible course of action. "If someone is injured, I must be fully prepared to render whatever assistance may be required." 

"That attitude is exactly what we're talking about!" Dr. Crusher exclaims. "You're too emotionally involved for this to be a good idea right now. You don't have to take on responsibility for everyone else's safety. No one can do that."

"You do not understand," I say bitterly.

"Data, we're your friends. We love you and we're trying our hardest to understand what you're going through," Commander Riker cajoles. "Please believe that we only want what is best for you, especially while you're trying to adapt to having emotion." 

He pauses. "That's why I'm going to have to ask Dr. Mendez to stop your training, just for now. And I don't want you working on the medkit EMH either, just for the time being."

Too furious to care about proprieties, I rise to my feet and leave the commander's quarters without another word.


	35. Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending was extended on 9/9/20.

Despite taking more than a few breaks, the session on the walker bars left me dripping with sweat. At least I managed to catch the towel Data tossed to me, if not the water bottle. My reflexes are finally starting to adjust to being left-handed. I figure by the time I get all healed up, I'll be ambidextrous. I think it's going to be useful.

"You did well today," Data comments, as he sits down on the holodeck floor next to me.

"Thanks." I take a sip of water. At last I'm seeing some progress; today I finished a whole round trip on the bars. The motor-assist bands are paying off. I still have a long way to go before I approach anything like walking independently, but I'm starting to get the hang of pushing the right signals at the right level all the way down to my foot. Plus, I'm starting to be able to sense what position my foot is in, without having to constantly visually check.

"Soon you should be able to try a walker," Data smiles.

"Next week. You'll see. I'll be ready early, no matter what Dr. Mendez thinks," I say confidently. Sure, I have a lot of work to do on my crap flexibility and stamina, not to mention getting my right arm to the point where it can support some weight. Still, whatever it takes, I'll do it.

With some effort, I straighten my bad leg out in front of me, and lean forward to stretch out my hamstrings. Just past the knee is the best I can do, which is frustrating as hell given that I've been able to go past my toes since I first started running cross-country as a kid. Flexibility is another thing I'm going to have to constantly work on.

Soon I switch to calf stretches, using my towel to pull my bare right foot upwards. That goes pretty well, at least until I pull a little too hard. Something in my right calf twinges sharply once, and then again. Hastily I rip off the motor-assist band and massage the calf as best as I can with one hand. Twinges like that usually mean some really unpleasant muscle spasms are on the way. 

"Here. Let me."

And I don't say no. He moves closer and I let Data massage my bare calf with his strong fingers. Just for that selfish moment of weakness, I want to feel his hands on me, even though my leg has limited sensation. I want to pretend that it's something special, that it means something more than Data just helping out a friend.

I watch him rubbing my leg, those lovely elegant fingers, and then glance at his face. I'm hooked by how serious he looks, the way his brows are drawn together. Then he glances up, catching me watching, and he smiles that shy little half-smile before dropping his gaze again.

I catch my breath at the sight and just like that, it hits me. What I'm doing, what I'm doing _again_ , and instantly everything good drains out of the day.

This nonsense has to stop once and for all. I rack my brains; there's got to be a way to push Data away without hurting his feelings. 

"Data?" I look down, pretending to focus on digging the heel of my good hand into my sore left quadriceps muscle. 

"Yes?"

"I want to thank you for all the time you've spent helping me, but I'm going to switch back to the holotherapist tomorrow." Before he can say anything, I plow on. "I mean, what with all the different types of therapy I have to do every day, I've gotten used to the holograms by now and after all, I'm sure you have more important things to do, so thanks, but you don't have to bother with this anymore."

"It is no bother. I enjoy our time together."

"But... but, uh, La For-- I mean, Geordi? You said he's finishing up in a few days so he'll be here soon, and of course you'll be busy with him. I mean, he's your best friend so of course you will have lots to do and talk about and plan, and... And the lab! You still have a lot to do to finish setting up the lab and then you two will be so busy, working on the chip."

"Surely you will assist us when you are able."

"Yes, well, normally I would but now, well, I don't think so. I mean, I don't know when I'll be allowed out, not for the amount of time that would be worth anything and I'm sure you can fix it without me and soon you'll be going off to your ship anyway, and, and, and, La Forge and I don't really get on so, you know, it's really better for me to just avoid the situation entirely, I think."

His left hand keeps working my calf muscle, while the right moves up to the inside of my knee. As little sensation as I have there, it's still shockingly intimate.

 _Sartorious_ , I recite the nearby muscles to myself as a desperate attempt at distraction. _Gracilis. Semimembranoses. Gastrocnemius._

"Am I hurting you?" Data asks. "You are becoming very tense."

"No, it's just... probably spasms coming on. See, just thinking about La Forge is very stressful for me and Dr. Mendez says that's not good while I'm recovering so I can't, I can't really, and you shouldn't have unnecessary stress either, what with the chip like it is, just because La Forge and I are arguing all the time."

"Lie back. It will be easier to loosen these muscles."

"No need, really. I'm fine."

"At least try to relax." Data's right hand curls around the back of my knee and I can feel the spot pressure of his fingertips as they work the muscles. "There is no need to worry. I am sure you and Geordi will get along fine once you know each other better."

I squeeze my eyes shut. _Semitendinosis. Biceps femoris. Plantaris. Oh my god, I've got to think of some way out of this._

Then Data's hand slides from the inside of my knee to my lower thigh. 

"Data, stop!"

His hands still, then draw away. "What is wrong?"

"My leg's fine now. You don't have to-"

"Why are you uncomfortable with my touch?" Data interrupts, his brow furrowed in confusion. "It has not bothered you before. I have touched your thigh many times when lifting you in and out of your support chair."

Desperately I try to think of a way to explain this, and then blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "It's, it's... Data, it just feels... uh, unprofessional. You know, we're... work friends. Not...friends friends. So it's not really... the sort of thing..." 

"I do not understand. Why are we not 'friends friends'?"

"I mean, okay, yes, we are, but not like... not like your other friends. See?" I nod encouragingly.

Data shakes his head. "I do not."

I scrub my hand across my face to give myself a moment to think. "I have a professional interest in you. So it feels a little odd for me sometimes when we... um, touch."

"Counselor Troi has a professional interest in me as well. Yet she is one of my closest friends and we touch each other often. Similarly, Commander Riker and Dr. Crusher have professional interests as well, and they hugged me twice yesterday."

"But aren't they all sort of... family? Like older siblings, kind of? And Picard's very paternal. I mean, that's the sense I've gotten from your letters over the years. But I'm not... family."

Tilting his head, Data considers. "Ah. I believe I understand."

"Okay, so that's why it's better that we maintain a distance between us. Especially in private," I say, relieved. "I mean, I'm very happy that we're friends and I really appreciate that you saved my life and of course all the help you've given me, but it's one thing when it's necessary that we touch, like if you're helping me with my chair, and it's something else again if it isn't... well, necessary."

Data still doesn't quite look like he gets it, so I add, "I also have to be mindful of preserving a certain sense of objectivity about you. I mean, you know how utterly wonderful I think you are, but my job... well, I already take so much heat because people think I, uh, focus too much on you, and if you can believe it, some people even criticize me for looking too much at you. Things get misunderstood, you know, taken the wrong way and gossiped about and that's why it's especially important for me to avoid any appearance of impropriety where you're concerned. After all, you're..." 

I trail off, uncertain of how to rephrase 'the most important person in my life' so that I don't get myself back into trouble with Data. A valued colleague? No. How do I let him know that one of the main reasons I stay at the annex in a job I mostly hate, instead of going off like Soong, is so I'll always have access to all the classified research, all the resources, everything I might ever need if Data needs help?

"Your object of study?" Data says angrily, rising to his feet.

"What? No, that's not what I meant!"

But he's already gone.


	36. Geordi

Man, what a night. 

After an early dinner with my salvage team leaders in the _Farragut_ 's mess hall, I had gone back to my temporary quarters. Based on the few good suggestions I'd gotten, I spent some time finessing the handful of remaining on-planet salvage tasks, so that we'll finish just a few hours shy of the original estimate. 

While I was working, Commander Riker had called with a heads-up on Data's reaction to the decision on his medical obsession thing. Even with all the emotional turmoil I know Data's been experiencing, I was shocked to hear that he had been upset enough to storm out. 

So it's not like I was expecting a walk in the park when Data called for our nightly talk, but I still wasn't prepared for how badly things went -- we'd literally never argued before. But from the moment he came onscreen, I could tell Data was already upset. Even though I tried to handle him with kid gloves, things went downhill quickly. He was by turns furious, sullen and weepy over the fact that I agreed with the commander and Dr. Crusher on delaying his medical training and EMH/medkit project. 

Trying to counter Data's concerns over failing some future medical crisis with examples of his past successes -- like the incredible job he did by bringing in Maddox alive, plus the time Data saved me and rest of the crew by curing the de-evolution intron virus -- well, it was pointless. In fact, it just seemed to make Data even more determined to increase his knowledge and skills before the next disaster so that I wouldn't be needlessly hurt or killed. Or the captain, or Deanna, and on and on. He's utterly obsessed with our safety.

I mean, I totally get it. For Data, the thought of experiencing that kind of devastating loss has to be unbearable. And what can I really say? "People die and you get used to it"? 

But the hard truth is that you _do_ get used to it. It was horrible when my mom died, but the pain isn't as bad now. I know mom wouldn't want me crying all the time. She always wanted me to be happy. I try to think about the good times, and that mostly works.

As for Data, the best compromise I could manage was to get him to agree to apologize to Commander Riker and Dr. Crusher for his rude behavior, and to promise to keep working on all these issues with his counselor. 

He wouldn't budge, though, on his determination to keep improving his medical preparedness. Data insisted it was no one's business what he chose to do in his off-duty hours, which I told him that we all naturally agreed with, unless it negatively impacted his job performance or his wellbeing -- paticularly his adjustment to having emotions. And we think that it is. I reminded him that as his friends, we're all trying to help him any way we can, and that includes trying to help him avoid what we believe are serious mistakes. That brought the discussion back around full circle.

It became obvious he and I weren't going to come up with some new solution, so finally I told Data that I didn't want to argue with him any more. I told him he needed to decide if he was going to obey Commander Riker or not, and that he ought to think long and hard about the ramifications of kicking up such a fuss over what was, after all, just a temporary delay.

That went over poorly, to say the least, so I switched gears. "Come on, Data. I'll be there in a couple of days and then you won't have time for all that medical stuff anyway. We have so much work to do. We need to get the rest of the lab equipment set up and then focus on fixing your chip, so you can turn it off if you want. I think that ought to be our top priority, don't you?"

Aaand Data was right back to furious. "You do not understand!"

"I guess not, Data, but I am trying. Anyway, let's drop it for now, okay? I gotta get some sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow night. All right?"

After going over the disastrous conversation, trying to see where I'd failed with Data, I was too upset to go straight to bed like I'd planned. Instead I decided to get my mind off that mess by spending some time reviewing the new _Enterprise_ 's warp core design and specs. At some point, though, the weeks of stress and late night caught me offguard and I nodded right off.

I'm not sure what wakes me up. Maybe the crick starting in my neck. Rubbing it, I check back through the last page of annotations. Minor changes, but they'll make emergency repairs easier. 

I consider working a little while longer, but decide against it. I can't afford to miss anything that might just give us an edge during a critical moment. Between Leah's theoretical and design skills and my practical experience, the new _Enterprise_ is going to be utterly amazing.

As I make my way down the night-darkened corridors towards my temporary quarters, my thoughts drift back to the anti-time anomaly in the Devron system: the captain had told all of us what he had seen in the future. Deanna's death, the rift between Worf and Commander Riker, Data becoming a professor at Oxford. Most of the others wanted to change things, but not me. Marrying Leah, having children and a successful writing career... it all sounded fantastic.

Her marriage seemed like an impossible obstacle, though. I had had to put anything more than friendship out of mind. But then I heard that Leah's husband had been killed, and I spent a lot of time thinking about her. About _us_. Even considering she would need time to grieve, I had never been able to figure out how or when our relationship could change. We've been comming each other fairly regularly for years, and I've done my best to attend the same engineering conferences. Of course I was respectful, professional, and very careful to mirror her strictly platonic demeanor. 

They say every cloud has its silver lining, and with the sudden loss of the _Enterprise_ -D, now I have the chance to work at Utopia Planitia. This has got to be it. The time I spend working with Leah on the new _Enterprise_ has to be what makes her fall in love with me. Oh, I'll play it cool to start, no pressure, but I know I can win her heart if I put my mind to it. I have the future that the captain saw as proof that she and I are highly compatible, as proof that we can fall in love with each other deeply enough to build a wonderful life together. 

_I'll be on Mars very soon_ , I promise myself as I crawl into bed. 

It's hard to believe Leah and I will have three children one day. _Alandra, Bret, and Sidney_ , I marvel, still unsure whether our youngest will be a boy or a girl. I kind of like not knowing everything.

Before Leah, I'd always expected that I'd be the stereotypical Starfleet brat-turned-lifer. I've always dreamed of commanding my own ship one day. But to have any time with Leah, I'll have to step away from shipboard duty sooner rather than later, and move fulltime to Mars. Between her job at the Cochrane Institute and me at the shipyard, it'll be an ideal partnership. The time together will let us develop a strong foundation for our relationship, strong enough to make it last our whole lives. 

The way my long-distance affair with Aquiel fizzled out, despite the telepathic Canar crystal bond, taught me that a rock-solid foundation is essential. Sure, the telepathy during sex with Aquiel had been absolutely incredible, not to mention educational on female response, but the Canar crystal had been a shortcut that our relationship wasn't mature enough to maintain. Maybe things would have worked out if Aquiel had let me help her get a transfer to the _Enterprise_... but she didn't. 

I'll make sure things are different with Leah. I won't let our chance at a life together slip away for lack of time, commitment or effort.

I do owe it to the captain to get the new _Enterprise_ out of the yards though, and to get her through her shakedown cruise. Get her new Engineering team squared away and running smoothly. Tweak the procedures and maintenance schedule to optimum. It'll be maybe a year, eighteen months at the most, before I can recommend the right person for the Chief Engineer job to Captain Picard. It's going to have to be someone really special to take care of my baby. Someone that I can entrust with the lives of the people that I love like family.

Then I'll work at the shipyards for a few years, or maybe I'll start my writing career right away. Or maybe neither -- I'm not sure how Leah and I will manage the kids, especially when they're little. Being a stay-at-home dad definitely has its appeal, but my own upbringing taught me the benefits of living with different relatives and moving around, even if I felt lonely at times. Yeah, mom and dad did the best they could, what with all their field assignments, but I want to tip the balance a little more towards stability for our kids.

 _Our kids_ , I repeat to myself, loving the sound of it. It occurs to me that I'm going to have to brush up on my braiding skills for my eldest daughter. It's been ages since I fixed my little sister Ariana's hair.

One huge issue I've got to figure out is how and when to tell Leah about our future together. Our _potential_ future, I mean. I don't want to screw up like I did when she came aboard and I stupidly pretended that the things I knew about her were just coincidence, instead of things I learned from her hologram. 

I'm going to be scrupulously honest with her this time around. I'll show her every day how much I respect her and her feelings. Yet the information about our potential future isn't something I can drop suddenly or carelessly on her. I know our relationship can't be an expectation, like I'm taking her for granted. That would be a recipe for disaster. I guess I just make it clear to Leah that knowing what I know, I can't help but hope for the eventual possibility, and that I'm willing to wait, willing to do the work and make the sacrifices to be worthy of earning her love.

Maybe when Deanna is back from her diplomatic mission, she can help me come up with some specific ideas on how to tell Leah. 

Satisfied with that plan, I pummel my pillow into the most comfortable shape, and roll on my side. I really need sleep.

But as tired as I am, my mind can't help but wander. Mmm. I can't wait to kiss Leah for real. Or maybe she kisses me first. Oh, that would probably be better, letting her take the lead. She's strong and assertive enough that I think she wouldn't be hesitant to do whatever she wants to me. 

I sift through my favorite fantasies, and pick the Jefferies tube one, but this time I flip it all around. She's behind me as we crawl and climb towards our remote destination; she's fully as at-home as I am in a service crawlway. We're talking back and forth over potental issues causing some erratic problem. Finally we get to the correct junction and open the service panel containing the suspect plasma relay components. Out come the specialized diagnostic tools and soon she has a genius idea. 

As I fix the problem under Leah's direction, I can't help but notice how beautiful she is in the flickering plasma light. Leah notices me looking, and starts teasing me about getting a plasma burn from being distracted. I laugh and tell her I've never gotten a burn yet; nothing could distract me that much.

She shifts closer and breathes, "I could."

I know that in real life, neither she nor I would be unprofessional enough to do any such thing, but hey, a fantasy is a fantasy. So I try to laugh off her remark and focus on my work, but the feel of her so close behind me, and her warm breath teasing my ear, has me hard as a rock.

And just like that I'm too impatient for that slow burn fantasy, and instead I imagine we're in her quarters, in her bedroom, and she's peeling off her clothes for me. I'm kissing her face, her neck, getting my hands on her soft, firm breasts and she's moaning as I slowly work my way down. The scent of her arousal is maddening, and the way Leah breathlessly whispers my name as I work my tongue and my fingers into her eager body is incredible. She shudders around my fingers, her thighs quivering as she pants with excitement. Mmmm. So good. I fist myself faster and faster until I fantasize Leah coming on my tongue, and that's enough to take me over too.

I lay there, weak with the aftershocks of pleasure. Wow. That was good. I can't remember when I last came so hard. But soon the unpleasantly sticky, cooling mess all over me breaks through the lassitude, and get up and get myself cleaned off with a water shower.

Then I'm back in bed, clean and relaxed, finally ready to sleep. I remind myself again that it's only a few days until I'll be finished up on Veridian III. After helping Data with his chip, I'll be on my way to Mars to make my dreams of a future with Leah into reality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Datacream for helping me out with ideas for this chapter.


	37. Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9/9/20: Sorry for any inconvenience - I moved stuff out of this chapter and into an extended ending for ch. 35.

It's just after 0900, and I'm waiting listlessly in my support chair while the holotherapist readies the equipment. The upcoming neuroplasticity-based muscle retraining is the easiest workout I have, aside from hand and finger work, but I'm really not looking forward to it. I'm already exhausted from the previous core strength session. 

Well, that, and not sleeping much recently. Between insomnia and anxiety, my head aches fiercely. My stomach was too tense to even consider breakfast. 

For the second night since I had somehow upset him, Data hadn't come by for his usual evening visit. The irony is that I had been desperate to put a little distance between us, but somehow I inadvertently succeeded in creating a chasm. 

I can't help worrying, even though I know it's no use. He'll either open the message with my apology and explanation, or he won't. He'll either believe what I wrote, or he won't. He'll forgive me, or he won't. 

Finally Sigrun, my regular holotherapist/ holomasseuse, straightens up and sweeps the usual unnecessarily dramatic hand towards the autotrainer. "Sir, please be seated. This morning's session will be ninety minutes."

Trying to push Data out of mind, I laboriously transfer myself from my support chair into the familiar reclined training seat with its padded headrest; Sigrun knows better by now than to put its hands on me unless it's absolutely necessary. I wait with eyes closed as the hologram straps me in. 

It's still disconcerting to see my basically useless right arm and leg move on their own as the sequenced electrical stimulation forces the muscles in the nerve-damaged limbs to contract and relax, but I'm supposed to watch. It's primarily through visualization during innumerable repetitions that my brain will rewire itself to regain control over my limbs. And normally I take the positive-neuroplasticity therapy very seriously, but right now I'm just too damn tired. Given that I have months, if not years, more of this to look forward to, I decide that today I'm just going to let the machine do its thing while I nap.

After the machine has generated a dozen repetitions or so on my numb arm, the hologram evidently registers my dereliction of duty. "Please pay attention, Dr. Maddox. You must visualize-"

"Be _quiet_. Your voice disrupts my visualization," I retort. 

Sigrun falls silent and I smile inwardly. It's already set on minimal conversation mode, which stomped down hard on its intolerable perkiness, and thwarting the hologram's offensive nannyism is always amusing. 

As tired as I am, with the machine alternating between working the muscles of my dead arm and mostly-dead leg, the constant jostling keeps jarring me awake. And the throbbing headache that's been bothering me for hours has worsened to the point that it feels like a giant fist is slowly squeezing my brain.

Still, I can't stop thinking about Data. He must be really furious with me. What if he doesn't even look at my message? What if he does, and it just makes him more upset? What if he never wants anything to do with me again? The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach. But I don't--

*****

Where am I? 

What's happening? 

Blurry figures loom over me. I try to pull away but I can't move. Even my head is pinned in place. Trying to break the restraints is futile; I don't have any strength. Everything hurts. I call out for help but my words come out weirdly distorted. Nobody pays any attention anyway.

As I lie there helpless, an unnatural sleepiness drags heavily on me. Have I been drugged? As I fight to stay awake, the blurry shapes make noises and I try to focus my scattered mind on that. I can't tell if they're talking to me or each other. I can't even make out what they're saying. 

Wait, are they aliens? 

Bright beams of light aimed at my head flash brighter then dimmer, brighter and dimmer. The light hurts my eyes, hurts my head. 

What are they doing to me? Brainwashing? Or -- shit, not a Romulan mind probe! Romulans don't use AI, so there's only one reason for them to kidnap me. But why do they want to know about Data? What are they going to do to him?

Then I realize the brutal pain in my head is lessening; the vise crushing my skull begins to loosen. I still can't move, but my vision is starting to clear up. The people don't look or dress like Romulans... I think they're humans. Maybe they're trying to help me, or maybe that's just what they want me to think. 

One of the people leans in close, lifting my chin so I have to look him in the eyes. He is gabbling incomprehensibly, though some of the noises are repeated multiple times. I don't know what happened to the translator in my combadge, but from what I can make out of the man's face, I don't think he wants to hurt me. Something almost makes me feel like I ought to recognize him. I'm very thirsty and ask him for some water as a test, but either he can't understand me or that's what he wants me to believe. 

Everything's too confusing and I'm so weary. I just close my eyes to shut out everything, even the sense of dread. Whether they're going to kill me outright or do it after mindsifting my brain into goo, there's not a thing I can do to stop them, and honestly, I'd rather not see it coming.

While the people keep jabbering, the pain gradually recedes and I sink gratefully into sleep.

*****

This is easily one of the shittiest days of my life. Not _the_ shittiest, mind you, but it's right up there.

Somehow Dr. Mendez never thought to mention that, on top of all the other really wonderful ramifications of neurological damage -- like headaches, memory problems and emotional control issues, increased anxiety and depression, not to mention sexual dysfunction -- I'd be at high risk for developing seizures. Or maybe he did tell me and one of the memory issues caused the warning to dribble right out of my ears. 

Seizures. Great. So today turned out to be the lucky, lucky day. After I woke up this evening, feeling like crap, mind fuzzy, with no idea where the last ten-plus hours went, Dr. Mendez told me that I've developed something called late post-traumatic seizures. Apparently, several hours of testing while I was unconscious showed that I've been having numerous momentary neuroelectrical abnormalities, mostly originating in my damaged temporal lobe. For some reason, that abruptly escalated into a series of full-body tonic/clonic seizures this morning. I don't remember any of that happening, but at least it explains why I'm so exhausted and sore all over.

Then he breaks the news that the severity and length of the seizures means even more drugs have been dumped on top of the daily dispensary's-worth of medication the doctor swears up and down that I need. Now I'll have to take a mix of anti-convulsants with common side effects like dizziness, drowsiness, poor concentration, short term memory loss and the ever popular depression and anxiety. Oh, and can't forget to pile on more emotional issues like irritability and aggression, which probably explains why I want to kick the shit out of Mendez. 

The fucker has the nerve to pat me on the shoulder as he stands up to go, and tells me that it'll be a few days before I'm allowed to do anything strenuous. Then I'm told I'll need to be much more careful about eating right and sleeping regularly. Oh, and I'm to keep stress to a minimum.

I tell him to go fuck himself, but he just chuckles something about irritability on his way out. Bastard.

*****

The nurse, Bailey, won't shut the fuck up. Every two minutes he's back in my room, nagging me about eating something so he can give me my nighttime meds, when I've already told him twice that I don't feel well. Maybe he'll listen if I throw up all over his fucking shoes. It'd serve him right for having such a goddamn annoying voice.

*****

Footsteps are coming down the corridor, approaching my room. Bailey again? Well, fuck him. 

Turning my face away from the door, I pretend to be asleep. I'm so tired that I wish I could have dozed off already, but it's not going to happen, not with the crushing headache and the way my stomach feels; it's too tense and upset to even consider arguing with the nurse again. 

Maybe I'll catch a break for once and Bailey will just go away. But with my luck, probably not. He's not quite as bitchy as Ellis, but if he realizes that I'm awake, he's going to bug me and bug me and bug me, never mind that I can't possibly eat anything.

The footsteps stop next to my biobed. I try my best to keep my breathing slow and even. _Go away, go away, go away_ , I recite mentally. 

"Bruce, stop feigning sleep."

Startled, I whip my head towards Data, then instantly regret it. My stomach lurches with nausea and I clap my hand to my temple against the starbursts of pain. 

"Are you all right?"

I close my eyes, and swallow hard to get rid of the watery saliva flooding my mouth. I take a few deep breaths to try to settle my stomach. "Whoa. Moved a little too quickly, I guess. But I'm fine now." More or less, anyway.

It occurs to me that Data's mad at me, but no, his frown seems more concerned than angry. I smile, dizzy with relief. "I'm so glad to see you."

Data smiles back. "And I, you."

A wave of heat rushes over my skin as I drink in his face. He's so damned beautiful. So fantastically perfect, right down to every single lash framing his luminous, emotive eyes, and those pale, shimmering lips. Surely they were made for sin. 

"You are staring again."

"Oh. Sorry," I breathe, my racing heart ready to beat its way out of my chest. Then my brain kicks in. "I mean, I really am sorry -- I didn't mean to make you mad the other day." I'm still not sure exactly what I did wrong, but that hardly matters. I'll make it up to Data any way he wants. 

"It is all right. I was agitated over... another matter. It was not your fault." He lays his hand over mine. "Am I forgiven?"

I look at his hand on mine and I shouldn't, I _know_ I shouldn't but I'm so happy that we're okay that I can't make myself care that it's grossly inappropriate. So I shift my hand and, watching his face for any sign of rejection, I slowly lace my fingers through his. "There's nothing to forgive."

Data smiles, easily the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face, and I grin stupidly up at him, my heart beating even more wildly with euphoria. 

"Ahem," someone coughs.

Startled, I snatch my hand away guiltily. When the hell did Bailey come in? Did he see-- 

Then I realize what I've done and I look up nervously at Data. Does he think I'm ashamed of him? Surely he'll be angry or at least disappointed in me.

But he isn't -- Data's expression is amused and tolerant. "Ah. Pardon my distraction, Ensign. Bruce, I was supposed to be encouraging you to have your dinner. It is past time for your evening medications, but you must eat something first."

"I can't, Data, really, I can't. I'll throw up." Especially now, with my stomach roiling from the adrenaline and anxiety. I might just hurl anyway, food or no.

"Ensign Bailey, please contact Dr. Mendez and request a suitable anti-nausea and anti-emetic prescription. This may enable Commander Maddox to consume the food requisite for his other medications."

"That's already prescribed in the evening mix, sir."

"In that case, perhaps it should be given first," Data says sharply. "Or perhaps the previous dose was insufficient to last as long as needed. Please confer immediately with Dr. Mendez on the best way to address Commander Maddox's nausea."

"Yes, sir." The ensign flees down the corridor. 

"I don't know how to thank you, Data. That guy was getting on my last nerve. I swear to god, I was just about ready to projectile vomit on him."

He tips his head in that adorably quizzical way he has. "Ensign Bailey is normally quite conscientious. Did you inform him that you felt nauseated?"

"Yes... well, sort of. When he kept bitching at me about dinner, I told him I felt sick. Twice. I'm sure he knew what I meant."

"Ah. Then you may thank me by being both more specific and prompt in reporting all of your symptoms to the medical staff."

I'm about to argue that I'm not the sort of person that's going to whine about every little thing, but then Data laces his fingers through mine, and gazes steadily at me.

Well, shit. Turns out I'll promise Data anything.


	38. Data

After departing Sickbay at the behest of two rather determined nurses, I head to the nearest of the starbase's three arboretums. Inside, the occasional curious stare follows me, as is typical in any new locale, but I hasten my steps: I do not wish to speak with anyone. 

In the gardening area, I come upon a section that is well screened by a grove of assorted dwarf fruit trees. Sweet-scented blossoms hang thickly near a set of neatly tended beds of edibles and remedies -- the type of herbs that Keiko had collectively called 'necessities'. I make a mental note to return to the facility with an imager to obtain holos for my next letter.

Bees and butterflies busy themselves among the multitudes of flowers, dipping here and there. One bed holds chamomile with tiny white and yellow blooms, purple-headed chives, spiked pink hyssop, golden yarrow and tiny- leaved thyme; another bed holds tall blue-flowering borage and fragrant kitchen sage, edged by an assortment of potted mints and lemon balm. If Keiko had been assigned to this starbase, there would be a bed or two of traditional Japanese favorites like _gobo_ , _negi_ , _mitsuba_ , and the essential _shiso_. Given their lack, I think it likely she will share some of her precious heirloom seeds with this facility's botanist, if I make an introduction in my letter.

Coming here was a good choice. The flare of anger I felt at having to leave Bruce has largely dissipated. I close my eyes and listen to the small noises of insects, underlaid by birdcall and faint voices in the distance. The complex intermingled scents and sounds are pleasant to analyze. 

Feeling calmer, I take a seat on a bench backed by a tall brambled hedge of blackberry. It was not reasonable for me to feel upset by the unexpected separation. I was only asked to leave temporarily while Bruce was being assisted with personal hygiene, since he is restricted to the intensive care suite for neuroelectrical monitoring and therefore cannot use his preferred holodeck facilities to cleanse himself. I should be pleased that the medical staff was so diligent as to step in promptly to assist him.

In a way, I regret that Bruce's two-day heavy beard shadow will be removed. It flattered his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline. It reminds me of how appealing I had found Geordi's short beard, though he wore it only briefly. On Bruce, the short-stubbled look is also attractively masculine, especially when paired with his current slightly-longer hairstyle, rumpled as it was this afternoon. I wonder why he does not wear a full beard like Commander Riker. With his fast-growing facial hair, a beard would be more efficient, as well as appealing. Perhaps he perceives that the much more common clean-shaven look is more professional; he does tend to comport himself more formally than others. 

Yet he is not as formal with me. No one else has ever touched my hand in such an intimate manner. Previously I have only observed interlaced fingers between couples and less commonly, among family members. I gaze at my right hand, turning it back and forth. Diagnostics report no error in my sensors, yet it seems that I can still register the lingering warmth of Bruce's touch. Indeed, as I replay the memory, warmth suffuses my entire body. 

I wonder if he had actually meant the gesture romantically, considering his delighted reaction at my reciprocation. Bruce seems less skilled in interpersonal relationships than most officers. He fails to recognize that he often comes across as abrupt and quite rude, to his own detriment. His obliviously offensive reference to the downed _Enterprise_ as a "junked ship" immediately comes to mind. That certainly did not help his effort to obtain Captain Picard's approval for my temporary reassignment to the Daystrom Annex.

Perhaps he simply does not perceive social cues as easily as others. Still, twining one's fingers with another's seems an odd element of body language to have misread. But if so, then he intended nothing more than the reassurance and friendship I had provided when holding his hand each night as my low voice helped him fall asleep. 

On the other hand, I feel sure that if he understood its implication, Bruce would not have made such a gesture carelessly. There is his horrified reaction to noticing Ensign Bailey's presence to consider, especially after his earlier remarks on the importance of avoiding any appearance of impropriety. The unavoidable fact is that I _am_ the primary subject of his life's work, and he obviously believes it would damage his reputation were we to be linked too closely. 

On balance, it seems more likely than not that Bruce does have some romantic feelings for me. If so, then the mixed messages sent are signaling his ambivalence on acting upon those feelings. 

I am also forced to wonder if the heart of his fascination is truly _me_ , or is it only the science used to create me? Bruce unquestionably aspires to surpass Dr. Soong's technical skills and artistry. It is conceivable that his adulation has extended to my creator's form as well as his mind. 

A disturbing thought occurs: perhaps my brother might serve that obsession as well as I. Perhaps even more so, since it is Bruce who has been performing the work necessary if Lore is ever to be restored to life.

*****

When I return to Sickbay, I find Bruce in fresh clothing, clean shaven, with his hair damp but neatly combed. As fastidious and impatient as he is, I would have thought him pleased at being deemed well enough to bathe. Instead Bruce is tense and withdrawn, his own fingers tightly interlaced, eyes turned resolutely away from me. 

Unsure whether he regretted his earlier gesture or something else has upset him, I discard the nascent thought of asking Bruce outright about his intentions towards me. Instead I begin the usual evening report on the new cybernetic lab's state of repair. Normally he is full of anxious questions but tonight he seems too lost in some inner turmoil to focus.

By the time I move on to latest news from the Bajor sector, Bruce at last begins to glance at me. As his evening medication lulls him into comfortable quietude, the tense, unhappy demeanor becomes increasingly open and relaxed. He seems content to let my words wash over him while he contemplates my visage -- my lips in particular -- but as I speak of the recent Bajoran-Cardassian Treaty and its potential impact on the looming threat of Dominion invasion, Bruce begins to meet my eyes. 

I fall silent as lassitude overtakes him. Even so, Bruce sleepily returns my questioning gaze. 

With a shock, I realize that my heuristics have interpreted his heavy-lidded stare as a frankly sexual invitation, which in turn has activated my sexual programming unbidden. I hurriedly terminate the flow of biofluid to my stiffening penis, and struggle to turn away the thoughts that have suddenly leapt from from considering the vaguely erotic realm of a romantic relationship into ideas of committing unsettlingly-specific sexual acts upon his person.

Fortunately, Bruce is unaware of my unseemly thoughts. As I hastily bid him good night, he only sighs and mumbles a sleepy farewell. 

*****

I spend the night conducting an extensive review and statistical analysis of all nontrivial interactions with humans -- friends, colleagues, acquaintances and even strangers. I have determined that the amount of time Bruce spends looking at me, in particular my face, is the extreme outlier if the dataset is assessed as a positively skewed distribution curve. This is true whether the analysis covers every one of our interactions since we first met on Earth in 2341, or if the dataset is limited to the last month. If the latter is used, the skewness is even more pronounced. 

The same holds true for the amount of time spent gazing at my lips. Lieutenant D'Sora was the only other significant positive outlier, when both our dating and the period immediately prior were calculated. 

Normally it would seem logical to assume such behavior was an indicator of romantic attraction as with Lieutenant D'Sora or, as when Tasha's judgment was impaired by the _Tsiolkovski_ virus, a sign of sexual desire. 

As it turned out, Tasha's one-time focus on my face and lips had only signalled the intoxicated desire to experience my sexual skills, not any romantic attraction. 

Though I had been unable to recognize it at the time, I have come to accept the shame and embarrassment she felt after our encounter as proof that, despite our later friendly interactions, at that particular moment I was for her no more than a fortuitous arrival in her quarters. 

Indeed, in the weeks afterwards I had observed so many strained interactions between crewmembers as to infer that extensive virus-fuelled sexual activity had taken place. It appeared, with the lone exception of Crewman Torok and Lieutenant Ferradino, who married soon after, that the inebriated liaisons had been universally disavowed.

With Bruce, any such assumptions of sexual or romantic attraction are not especially useful in deciding how I should proceed. Though I think it clear that he is captivated by me, in truth he always has been, from the time of our first meeting more than thirty years ago, when I was merely a wondrous machine to him. 

All my analysis has been of little help. I am left with the same quandary as before. I do not know how to assess his interest, or determine whether my appeal is because of my artificial origins, or even how to determine whether it would be fair to engage in a relationship given the damage to his scientific reputation. Normally I would ask my friends for input and guidance, but in this case that seems impractical: they all would be displeased by my attraction to someone they have strongly disliked for six years. But they have not had the opportunity to see for themselves his genuine remorse and changed behavior. They did not see him assert the value of my life, even over his own. 

After further deliberation, I decide that the most sensible path forward is to ask Bruce outright at the next opportunity, since he is unlikely to take lasting offense if I am wrong. If he disavows any interest or is unwilling to alter our existing relationship, then at least the matter will be settled, even if not in the way I would prefer.


	39. Data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentioned works are linked in endnotes

The badly-damaged cortical node analyzer lies partially disassembled upon the workbench. As I continue dismantling it, an unexpected sense of vexation at the tedious task before me sets in. 

However, Geordi is scheduled to arrive in two days. He will be disappointed if I have failed to return the analyzer to service or make significant progress on rebuilding the multisystem testing frame. Nor have I even begun unpacking the final shipment of crates of equipment salvaged from my ruined cybernetics lab on the _Enterprise_. 

I would prefer to spend the morning with Bruce, but I know that he will be distressed to hear of any further lab delays. Given yesterday's dangerously prolonged seizures, the doctors emphasized that Bruce must have calm and rest until his new medications have had time to take full effect. Since a major cause of Bruce's stress is the threat he perceives from my damaged emotion chip, I resolve again to focus on the painstaking work necessary to repair the analyzer.

Even so, I soon find that my processing resources are being increasingly diverted to thoughts of our interactions last night. The sensory record of his warm fingers laced through mine keeps replaying, as does the heat of our intense eye contact. I cannot help but wonder what would it feel like if Bruce were to touch my body. 

If he is indeed interested in a romantic relationship, at some point we might even become intimate. Would his caress be as slow and reverent as when he kissed my wet fingertips in the cave, or as heated as last night's gaze? I do not know which to hope for, but I cannot stop thinking about it. More precisely, I do not _want_ to stop thinking about how we might be, together.

Yet I have many tasks that require my attention. I must also meet Commander Riker for lunch. He too will expect progress on repairs. I do not want to disappoint him either. This emotional dissonance is quite unpleasant.

Finally, I decide on a compromise. A short visit to Sickbay now will permit me to better maintain focus later.

*****

When I enter the corridor to the intensive care section, I can see Dr. Mendez and a nurse standing by Bruce's biobed. I return to the main bay to wait, not wishing to intrude.

On the way back to his office, Dr. Mendez notices me. "Good morning, Data. We don't usually see you this early. How are you? "

"I am fine. And you?"

"To be honest, a bit tired. Your friend kept us busy last night with seizures. Drug-refractory status epilepticus." 

Fear grips me, even as the appropriate treatment options unspool in my mind. "How is he?" 

The doctor lifts a hand in a gesture I recognize with relief as dismissive. "Oh, he'll be just fine. Dr. Ciobanu came right in when medications didn't help. Rather than use a protective coma and hope that third-tier drugs would be effective, she revised the epileptogenic tissue, since temporal-originating epilepsy is so often pharmacoresistant anyway. Bottom line, the neurosurgery both stopped the seizures and substantially reduced the risk for further activity."

"That is very good to hear. Is Bruce well enough for me to visit?" I have every reason to trust the doctor, yet I feel the need to verify Bruce's condition for myself. 

"Yes. The postictal disorientation and agitation haven't quite faded yet, and of course he's very tired. That's not a good mix for anyone, so he's been a bit difficult this morning." He winks at me. "But now I have my secret weapon."

"I do not understand."

"You, Data. You're very good at getting Bruce to relax. So do the staff a favor and go get your cranky friend to calm down. Better yet, get him to sleep."

Promising to do my best, I take my leave and proceed to the intensive care section. 

In the distance, at first it appears that Bruce is wringing his hands as he sits propped up on the biobed. But as I approach the doorway, it becomes apparent that he is performing a range of motion exercise.

"Good morning. May I come in?"

"If you want." He is focused on using his left hand to grip his fist, making it move the wrist from the flexion position to extension, and back. 

The agitated undertone in his voice and hunched, tense posture do not escape my attention. Neither does his reluctance to look at me; it seems to be a reliable tell that something is amiss. I watch silently as Bruce shifts to moving the wrist side-to-side; first, radial deviation toward the thumb, and then ulnar deviation towards the pinky.

Quietly, I comment, "Your flexibility is within normal parameters for your age and gender. That is excellent."

"Does me a lot of good on an arm that's fucking _useless_."

"It is no small accomplishment to have avoided contracture. Your hard work will be beneficial no matter what degree of sensation and control you regain."

"I'm not going to regain _shit_ if I'm stuck in this damned room for who knows how much longer."

"Given that-"

"Yes, yes, I've heard it all already this morning, thanks. It's for your safety, it's just a couple more days, it's this or that _bullshit_ , so just - just fucking _don't._ "

"As you wish," I say, and take the seat to the right of Bruce's biobed. It seems clear that he is overwrought due to the extended medical restrictions. After Dr. Mendez's words of confidence in me, it is highly unpleasant to realize that I do not know how to soothe Bruce's agitated state. 

Using his left hand, Bruce uncurls the fingers on his numb hand, pressing palm to palm to hold the digits straight. He uses his left thumb to stretch the right one outward, then cycles again through the exercise.

"Can you believe it, my parents want me to take a year's medical leave and move back to Earth," he says abruptly. 

"Would that not be preferable to recuperating in a rehabilitation facility?"

That earns me a glare. "I'm not getting dumped in any goddamn _facility_ , and I certainly don't need to be coddled. I'll just have to work harder so I can get out of here and go home. I'll manage any remaining rehab on my own. Work part-time, if I have to, at first."

"Have you discussed this plan with Dr. Mendez?"

"You think I can't do my job?" he snaps.

"I think your health needs to take priority over work for a time," I say gently. The more time you spend in physical and occupational therapy during the first year, the more functionality you are likely to regain. You know that."

"I would have thought _you'd_ understand! I have things I need to do!" 

"They will wait. Here, let me." I take his right hand in my hands so I can work on finger flexion and extension more gently than his agitated efforts. 

"They _won't_ wait. I've been gone too long already. I need to make sure research stays on track!"

"Surely Dr. Teixeira can fulfil your duties during your absence." 

"Well, she can _try_." Bruce huffs out an annoyed breath. "Look, Renata's smart, a hard worker, all that, but she simply doesn't have the experience for some things." 

He eyes me sourly. "Don't give me that look. I was Associate Chair for nearly ten years before Dr. Corwin felt I was ready enough so that she could retire, and that's faster than most. Renata only got her doctorate four years ago. She's junior to have been selected as an Associate Chair, never mind filling in as Chair for any length of time."

"I was not questioning your judgment." I separate his fingers, moving each one in turn from side to side, abduction to adduction.

"Oh." Frowning, he watches me work on his hand, before eventually mustering an apologetic smile. 

"Sorry about that, Data. I suppose I am a little on edge, between dad's call and being stuck indefinitely in here with all of this," he says, waving at the medical equipment, "plus worrying about my department." 

"Your frustration is understandable. But why are you worried about work?" I smile encouragingly, which eases his bodily tension. 

"It's not a good time for me to be away for so long."

"Why is that?" The next stretch is thumb opposition, making a large circle with the thumb first one way, then the other.

"Well," he says, his tone turning more thoughtful, "for one thing, the departmental short and long term plans are due soon. It's essential that I review all of the detailed research proposals first. And then I absolutely have to be there in person for the murder board, to defend my department's priorities." 

"Which are?" 

"Why, whatever the fleet needs," Bruce says, brow furrowed. "People's lives depend on our work, you know. Of course it's primarily been construction and maintbots in recent years, especially since the loss of the _Odyssey._ Fleet Yards has been begging us to help them make transformational gains in shipyard efficiency." 

He begins shaking his head but then rubs his temple, closing his eyes momentarily as if in pain. "Not that it always pays off. We worked our butts off to maximize automated construction for the NXP-2365 prototype, and then the trials showed that the engineers screwed up the design so badly that HQ mothballed her and canceled the whole escort program. What a waste of our time." 

"Perhaps that decision will be revisited," I comment, watching carefully to gauge his condition. "The _Defiant_ was reactivated last year and has proven to be an invaluable asset for Deep Space Nine." The matter of its hijack and the subsequent Cardassian imprisonment of Commander Riker's duplicate, Thomas, is little known and I judge, not relevant.

"Hmf. Nobody told _us,_ " Bruce grumbles. "Typical."

"Then you surely have not heard that recently the _Defiant_ was instrumental in the completion of an unprecedented Bajoran, Cardassian and Federation joint project to establish communications through the wormhole to the Gamma quadrant."

That piques his interest. "That could give us a heads up on any Dominion move towards invasion."

"Indeed," I reply, "But I did not mean to go off on a tangent. You were talking about your department's priorities?" I begin the final hand exercise, manipulating the digits on his right hand so that the thumb meets each of the fingers in turn.

"Oh. Well, let's see." Bruce leans back against the raised portion of the biobed, raking a distracted hand through his hair. "There are the industrials -- things like heavy duty exo-suits, resource auto-miners, terraforming robots. Securitybots, naturally. You name it, I've got somebody working on it. Well, at least part time work, because I've got to fight the other departments for every damned fraction of a man-year." 

He stifles a yawn. "Sorry. Um, on the software side of the house, there are the special purpose AIs: security, ship's defense, and so on. Direct neural interlinks to bot bodies. And then there's whatever I can get done related to you, and Lore, of course." 

"Yes?" I encourage, massaging his nerve-damaged hand. The disappointingly low neurotrophic and growth factor stimulation rates bode ill for significant recovery, but every small improvement will be important for independence. Bruce must continue full time rehabilitation for the foreseeable future. Either Dr. Teixeira will have to step up, or Vice Admiral Haftel will have to find another cyberneticist to serve as Chair of Robotics.

"Dr. Soong's work isn't very popular these days. A lot of people just don't see the value in still studying you, even though your unique skills literally saved the Federation from the Borg. So I'm always having to fight for resourcing, especially dedicated lab space. 

"In fact, I had to give up part of Lore's lab for positronic matrix brain-implant development last year. The tasking was very premature, in my opinion, but after all 'ours is but to do or die'. Hah. As if I didn't already have enough priority one work dumped on my staff!"

I consider correcting the oft-misquoted Tennyson, but decide to let it pass. 

"And _then_ the Surgeon General got their shorts bunched up because my team's not working quickly enough to suit them. If you can believe it, apparently they've already started experimention with brain tissue replacement in some terminal patients."

Bruce grinds the heel of his left hand against his temple. "Anyway, between their admiral and mine, the shit is _constantly_ rolling downhill. Whether it's Renata's synaptic scanner or my interface or hell, some subtle incompatibility in the positronic matrix itself, the process still lacks fidelity." 

He reaches over to take my hand. "What you once called the ineffable quality of memory, Data. You know, I'm still so very sorry--"

"There is truly no need to apologize again," I say lightly, despite my distaste for the experiments. "Shall I ask Dr. Mendez for an analgesic?"

"No," Bruce says, with a dismissive glance at the doorway. "That guy's been hovering all morning. It's bad enough that they dump half the damn pharmacy into me twice a day. I'm not about to volunteer for more, just for a little headache."

"Then let us move on to a more pleasant topic. Perhaps... tell me more about the lack of interest in Dr. Soong's work, and how you are able to justify the repairs on Lore?"

"Well, even if the others are dismissive, Haftel agrees he should be fixed in case he can be persuaded to help against the Borg. So Lore's repair is one of a dozen top priorities."

"I would not count upon Lore's desire to be helpful."

"No, but a promise of leniency proportional to his helpfulness might make him consider it. At any rate, in more general terms, Haftel's got to retire one of these days, so I think it's important to make all the brass understand that if we don't know how to create sentient artificial life, then we don't know how to avoid creating it accidentally. If we do that, the best case scenario is that a newly sentient AI or individual lifeform becomes an ally. But then there's the flip side." 

Warming to the topic, Bruce begins to relax, though he still holds tightly onto my hand. "Lore's a stark reminder of the kinds of things that can go wrong with an AI, even one with a fundamentally sound design. From a psychological standpoint, I really don't know how Dr. Soong thought raising Lore the way he did could possibly work out well. If Lore hadn't gone mad--" 

"You believe he was insane?"

"You don't?" Bruce hastily sits fully upright, then grimaces. 

"We will have to save that discussion for another day," I reply firmly, pressing on his chest so that he must recline again. "Dr. Mendez was emphatic about your need to rest, so let us finish this conversation quickly." 

Despite Bruce's eye roll, I draw up the folded blanket from the foot of the bed, and cover him chest-high. Whether Bruce likes it or not, I will be informing the doctor of this worsening headache. 

"What were you going to say about Lore?" I prompt.

"Just that if he had been able to effectively lead the Borg, I don't think we would've had a chance. Then again, if you hadn't already saved Earth by blowing up that cube, we'd already have been long dead by that point. Or worse, assimilated." 

I recall that acupressure has long been used to reduce headaches. Taking both of his hands in mine, I begin with _Hegu_ and apply pressure on the thick webbed muscle between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. 

Blinking in surprise, Bruce continues, "And we're still not safe. The Borg might be still be smarting over the loss of that cube, but they're coming back for us one of these days.

"And when they do, I want all our starships to have cargo bays full of shielded, meshed-AI botswarms ready to beam over to attack any access ports -- cube or drone -- and start hacking their hivemind protocols, disrupting their subspace network with constantly changing attacks. Each unit learning from the failure or success of the others, and of course they'll have all of the mission reports, your logs, and everything useful we've been able to winnow out of Lore's memory dump."

"Shall I try another acupressure point?" At his nod, I move to the side of the biobed and cup his bemused face in my hands, pressing small circles on each _Yi Feng_ acupoint, at the back of the jawbone, just below the ears. The beard stubble scratches pleasantly on my palms. "Please, continue."

"Okay, uh... we might even be able to send the swarm via a self-powered-and-glide mode to sneak through their shields, like you did when you snatched Captain Picard off the cube. Worst case, the bots serve as a distraction. And any survivors can try jamming, or once in, they can go blow up high value targets. Maybe individually, maybe swarmed if enough survive." 

"That is a very ambitious project." I begin to analyze the possibilities and implications, while shifting to massage the _Jian Jing_ acupoints on his shoulders. 

"I suppose so, but we've got to try. I've been the lead on the AI team so far, because security-wise it's got to actively resist infiltration, and that's my specialty. Well, besides you, I mean. Anyway, I've got a small team kicking around some ideas in case we have to go up against the Dominion first. 

"Fact is, no matter the target, we'll have to flex our bot design around whatever improved capabilities the south wing guys can come up with. They've been floating a lot of ideas for improved defense, propulsion and weapons over at Tac Ops Command, but of course we'll have to wait and see what actually pans out." 

I shift my hands to cradle his skull, applying my thumbs to the _Feng Chi_ pressure points just below the cranial base. "With all of that on your mind, I can understand your concerns. I am surprised you have had time to work on Lore's repairs." 

"Hah. Like I said, he's just one of a dozen so-called number one priorities. To get any uninterrupted time with him at all, it's my evenings and weekends." Bruce shrugs discontentedly. "There's just never enough time in the day."

"I begin to see why your messages to me are always sent late in the evening." I switch to a more conventional massage technique on his neck and shoulder muscles.

He yawns, then continues, "Without me there, poor Renata's probably working double shifts just to keep her nose above water, and _still_ getting her ass chewed up one side and down the other. And that's despite Haftel liking her better than me. That guy can be a real jerkwad sometimes." Bruce chuckles humorlessly. "Oops. I didn't mean to say that last part. 'Take heed what you say of your seniors,' and all that."

"Ah. Rear Admiral Ronald Hopwood, 1896. Known as the British Royal Navy's poet laureate. Aside from Captain Picard, I have not met another familiar with his works."

"Huh. Well, my dad's always been big on military history; he had me memorize all kinds of stuff as a kid. He particularly liked the _Laws_ , and Kipling's _If_. You've got to admit, Hopwood's advice is still pretty damned good."

"It is. Then you would agree that, 'So shall ye, if perchance ye grow weary--'"

"Data!" he protests, swatting at my chest. "Might've known you'd use it against me."

Then our eyes catch, and hold for a long moment. My hands go still on his shoulders, as does his hand on my chest. A flush of heat surges throughout my body. If I lean forward only a little, our lips will touch. Yet I have not had the opportunity to ask if he is interested in a romantic relationship. This is not an appropriate time to ask such a serious question. 

Instead, I avert my gaze and once again cup his face for _Yi Feng_ , fingertips pressing small circles just below each of his ears. "Is this helping your headache?"

"Oh. Yes. Um, you really don't have to do that. I'm... I'm fine now." 

"Are you certain? I am happy to help you."

"No, but thanks. I mean... yes, I'm certain." 

Drawing my hands away, I consider an apology for discomfiting him, but I assess that it will only make Bruce more uncomfortable. He has started fidgeting with the edge of his blanket, with eyes downcast. 

"Thank you, Data. I don't mean to seem unappreciative when you've been so nice." The unhappy, tense expression is back. 

"Bruce--" 

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Dr. Mendez enters the room, hypospray in hand. Glancing back, I see that Bruce's gaze is now fixed uneasily on the hypo.

"Sorry to interrupt you two, but the postictal edema is worsening," the doctor says, coming to stand by the far side of the biobed. "We're going to bring down your intracranial pressure by reducing your neuroactivity for the next eight to ten hours."

"Wait a minute, you said I'd be able to go to the holodeck for therapy this evening."

"I'm sorry. Possibly tomorrow." 

"Great." Sighing heavily, Bruce tips his head to accommodate the carotid injection.

The doctor reaches underneath the biobed, lowering the head to the 45° semi-Fowler position, with the knee gatch automatically adjusting as well. "Comfortable?" 

"Uh huh," Bruce yawns.

Dr. Mendez pauses in the doorway. "Data, you've got about five more minutes."

I nod. "Yes, doctor."

"Don't forget, I need my padd!" Bruce calls out after him. "Crap. I guess he didn't hear me. See if you can get it back for me, will you?"

"Why do you require a padd?"

"Since I'm not allowed to exercise tonight, I want to get some work done."

"What are you working on?"

He hesitates. "Uh... nothing much."

Eyebrows raised, I gently chide, "Nothing much?"

"Damn it. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"I will be just as surprised now as I would be later."

"Oh, all right." He shrugs sheepishly. "But fair warning, I don't have the details because they don't let me do anything useful here." The last is yelled at the doorway. "How about you help me out with my upper arm range-of-motions while I tell you. Deal?"

"Deal." With only three to five repetitions required, I can complete the stretches within the doctor's time limit. I move to the right side of the biobed and beginning with his elbow joint, I start on flexion with supination, which will alternate with forearm extension and hand pronation. 

"Okay then. This first project probably doesn't sound like very much, but I want to fix all of your seams so they seal properly against liquids. No more of this 'weeks to clean out your servos' nonsense. Fresh and salt water are bad enough, but something even a little bit loo more corrosive could cause some significant problems." 

Bruce smiles sleepily up at me. "Plus I've roughed out plans for a built-in flotation device. Buoyancy for yourself and up to four adults. Staying afloat will minimize the hydrostatic pressure on the seals too. The trick'll be safely storing the supercompressed gas, working around clothing, and selecting a material strong yet thin enough, so you don't wind up looking like you have love handles."

"Love handles?" I query, bringing his right arm straight across his chest for horizontal adduction, then using abduction to extend the right limb out to the side.

"Um." Bruce rubs the back of his neck, and frowns up at the ceiling. "Never mind that now. Retraction's an issue so the system may need to be single-use. Anyway, once I have the plans finished, I'll send them to you to look over. And, uh, I think it's best if La Forge does the install. I don't know how long it'll be before my fine motor skills are good enough to risk working on you."

"It is very kind of you to spend time thinking of ways to expand my capabilities." 

"It's nothing really, not compared to what you've done for me." Yawning, Bruce scrubs the back of his hand across increasingly heavy eyelids. "The other idea, I think you might like even better: a personal alternative to a holo-medkit."

"Ah! Please explain." Though I have tried my best to put the incident with Commander Riker and Dr. Crusher out of mind, the memory is still upsetting. 

"Forget the hologram, in fact, forget dragging around a medkit at all. All you really need is the medical database underlaid by the clinical decision support system; that's a trivial amount of storage for you. Same for processing."

"Intriguing! But how--"

Bruce holds up his left hand, wiggling the fingers. "Remember Lore's fingernail trick? I'm going to make you a set of medihands that will utilize space in the distal phalanges. I'll miniaturize a medkit handheld scanner unit and pop it right under a thumbnail. The other fingertips could have hyposprays with the most common drugs. Add power leads into the fingers on the other hand, then install dermal regen, osteo regen, surgical laser, whatever. Medical instruments are oversized to..." A huge yawn swallows his words. "...to..." He struggles, and fails, to re-open his eyes.

Excitedly, I extrapolate, "...to maximize utility and ergonomics for an adult human hand. In addition, such instruments must house sensors, intelligent circuitry and a power pack; all of which can be remotely located for me."

"Mmhm."

My mind fills with useful items that could be placed in each digit. Why not incorporate swappable modules to increase my pharmaceutical capacity? Sprayable skin sealant for rapid repair of large injuries in time-constrained situations. Coagulant. Disinfectant. Even defibrillator pads in my palms. Forearm void space or other storage compartments could be utilized for spares and extra supplies, plus any fine tools needed to facilitate rapid module swappage. Or perhaps my forearms would be better reserved for volemic supplies such as plasma.

I look at my hands with newfound appreciation of the possibilities, and smile joyfully. I turn to thank Bruce but he is already asleep. 

As he begins snoring lightly, I am unpleasantly reminded of the breathing difficulties he had suffered on Eldaran II. I assess that the most likely issue is partial positional airway obstruction due to the elevated head of the biobed. Carefully, I reach underneath the pillow and adjust it so Bruce's head tips back slightly, better aligning his pharynx and trachea. His breathing eases.

"Dim lights to one-quarter." Feeling an unwarranted rush of relief, I take a seat by Bruce's side as the drugs further slow his respiration. 

Perhaps, if he is feeling well tomorrow, I will be able to inquire about the feasibility of initiating a closer relationship. 

Feeling a sudden sense of trepidation at the thought, I review the advice I had received prior to my only previous attempt at dating. Counselor Troi's words of caution resonate most deeply. My earlier plan to ask him outright now seems unwise. 

A slower approach in all aspects may be more appropriate. Once we have agreed to date, it seems best that we initially proceed with discretion due to Bruce's reputational concerns. Circumspection will give us the time and privacy to determine if we are indeed as compatible as it seems, before adding complicating factors that are not strictly required. That includes the potential for opposition from my friends, although I expect they would respect my choice once I have informed them of my decision. 

But those thoughts are premature. I must decide how to tactfully bring up the topic with Bruce. Perhaps some small talk, then a casual mention of upcoming cultural events? I can use his reaction to determine if he has any interest in concerts, art, or dance. It seems that he favors poetry. Alternatively, a military history lecture might be appealing. Or perhaps he enjoys competitive sports; I recall hearing in passing about a parrises squares tournament set to begin next week. 

Assuming our first social event goes well, I can then ask if he is interested in a more private engagement, such as dinner in my quarters. Or would that come across as too presumptuous for a second date? To avoid the risk of misinterpretation, it might be better to suggest a more neutral setting. The secluded garden nook that I found in the arboretum may suffice. 

I must take care to ensure clarity of communications, especially with the propensity towards miscommunication in human romance. Once we have begun dating, I should explicitly state that I wish to pursue a romantic relationship, rather than the purely physical. Indeed, I would refuse the latter, despite the recurrent thoughts I have had of our bodies passionately entwined. 

Having seen firsthand how casually some take and discard sexual partners, I do not understand the appeal of a deliberately uncommitted sexual relationship, though that is not an attitude common to humans. Numerous crewmates have taken shore leave on Risa, Casperia Prime, Wrigley's, or one of the less renowned pleasure planets, just to engage in such acts. Even the captain and Commander Riker. Geordi as well. Similarly, though little is ever said, it is evident to me that my crewmates often satisfy their sexual urges through the use of holodeck simulcra. I find it difficult to imagine that such delusory pleasures do not quickly pall, much as pornography or uncommitted sex is said to be a poor substitute for emotionally connected love-making. 

Then again, having seen both the difficulties of failed romantic relationships and the wide variety of complications when they work out, for career-oriented officers it does seem better to have holodeck or uncommitted sex in order to avoid entanglements with shipmates. Indeed, it was said Commander Daren transferred early from the _Enterprise_ after her near-fatal away mission on Bersallis III, precisely because she and the captain had become so seriously involved. Certainly none of the various romantic relationships between senior staff officers have lasted very long despite the fact that each pair had seemed well-suited, particularly Commander Riker and Counselor Troi. 

I do not have any insights into the reasons that those relationships fell apart, unlike my fundamentally flawed attempt at romance with Jenna. Again I recall Captain Picard's remark that he would be delighted to share advice on understanding women, when he had some. If my colleagues, including the captain, have had difficulty understanding their partner, what chance have I?

The degree of uncertainty I am feeling in regard to determining how best to initiate and maintain a romantic relationship is unsettling. 

Perhaps I should go back to the basics: my goal is a lasting relationship. Assuming things go well initially, it may be a good thing that Bruce and I will soon be separated, either when he is sent for rehabilitation or when I must return to the _Enterprise_. Absence is said to make the heart grow fonder, after all, and I have observed that the captain's long-distance relationship with Commander Daren has flourished over the last two years, with only three brief shore leaves spent together. In a similar vein, Geordi's feelings for Leah Brahms have not abated despite their infrequent encounters at conferences. It makes sense that communicating by message when the delay is too great for extemporaneous conversation, would foster well thought-out exchange of information. Yet I wish that we did not have to separate so soon.

"Everything all right?" Dr. Mendez asks, as he enters the room.

"Yes. May I stay a while longer?"

"I don't see why not. It's not as if it's possible for you to disturb him." 

The doctor brushes stray dark locks aside, then affixes a small brainwave inducer to Bruce's forehead. "This will keep him down in the delta frequencies. Dr. Ciobanu and I think that'll suffice but if not, we'll induce a coma. Human brain tissue must have as much rest as possible, in order to maximize neurogenesis and plasticity. That's especially true after repeated injury. So no, Bruce won't be getting back the padd he was yelling about. 

"Thanks for helping him settle down, though." He gestures at the darkened biodisplay panel over the bed. "I always keep the display in my office set to my most critical patient. I saw that Bruce reacted well to your presence, as usual." He chuckles. "Maybe I should have you give him the bad news about the padd."

"I would glad to assist."

"No, no, I was only joking; I'll explain it to him again. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got other patients to check on."

I am tempted to ask Dr. Mendez to elaborate on the readings that indicated Bruce's reaction. However, after Commander Riker's order terminating my medical training, I no longer have access to detailed medical data on any patient. It would be inappropriate, as well as ungrateful, for me to put Dr. Mendez in a difficult position simply because I want to better gauge Bruce's responses to me.

In the dimly lit room, I sit and watch while the drugs and delta wave inducer slow Bruce's breathing and brain activity to minimal levels. 

He is unnervingly still; the interval between his shallow breaths is so disturbingly long. The memory of those long dreadful hours in the cave forces its way to the forefront of my mind.

I know that the treatment is completely appropriate, indeed necessary for neurological healing. Dr. Mendez is a highly skilled physician who pays extremely close attention to Bruce's wellbeing. He may not have the charm or ferocity of Dr. Crusher, but his dedication to his patients is the same. His office is only moments away, in the event of some new problem.

Rationally, there is no safer place for Bruce to be than in this recently upgraded starbase-level Sickbay, easily among the most advanced medical facilities to be found anywhere in the Federation. He is well protected by this sleek intensive care biobed unit. It can detect, alert, and support the staff in appropriately reacting to any of the thousands of potential medical problems a patient could experience. The bed's sophisticated AI-based systems will help ensure Bruce maintains optimal oxygenation and blood chemistry. They can supply parenteral nutrition, and so much more; even total life support should it be required. 

There is no reason for me to be concerned for Bruce's safety, even if some unexpected complication should occur. Yet I feel tense and uneasy inside at the mere thought of leaving Bruce in order to return to the work waiting for me in my lab. 

To gain control of my emotional state, I attempt to objectively analyze the sensations. This irrational fear feels very different than the paralyzing terror I felt when Tolian Soran threatened my life. That affected my whole body; in that moment, I could not have moved, even to save myself or Geordi. In this case, my limbs are so far unaffected. This fear feels more... visceral, if such a term can even be applied to an android. 

I recall that Counselor Troi told me that when Lal was frightened by Vice Admiral Haftel's threats, she repeatedly thrust her fingers against her upper abdomen, as if the feeling were centered there. Mine is as well. Perhaps the distress I am feeling is somewhat akin to hers: fear of unwilling separation mixed with what I might call a feeling of helpless and apprehension. Of course, my sense of dread is far less justified than Lal's, since the probabilities of what each of us feared are so widely divergent. 

Then I feel shame at the utter lack of justification for these unsettling feelings. I can see that Bruce is fine. It is just that... seeing is not enough. I want the reassurance of _feeling_ the steady pattern of Bruce's heartbeat and respiration. I could lay my hand upon his chest, but I do not yet have the right to touch him any time I choose. Bruce's words in the holodeck clearly indicated that he draws a line between touch that is necessary, such as when I assist with his physical therapy, and that which is unnecessary. Especially unnecessary touch that might be perceived as overly familiar. Touching him to reassure myself while he sleeps certainly falls in the latter category.

Suddenly it occurs to me that there is an alternative. My superior sensory capabilities could supply a great deal of information if I increase their sensitivity above the default human-equivalent levels. The enhanced olfactory, auditory and visual sensors would allow me to assess Bruce's wellbeing when physical contact is not appropriate. I would be easily able to monitor his heart rate and respiratory function. Olfactory chemical analysis would allow me to detect numerous medical issues, including stress or pain. 

Still, there are ethical issues to be considered. I consider the examples set by Geordi and Counselor Troi. They do not use their sensory skills to gain personal advantage, but to further the mission and safeguard the crew. I know Geordi used his VISOR to assess Bruce's biosigns in order to protect me, and Counselor Troi, his emotional state for the same purpose. Just as their abilities are no secret, neither are mine.

It is not so different for me to use my abilities to assess Bruce, enabling me to better detect when he is feeling ill, and additionally to gauge and adjust my interactions with him to soothe agitation or upset caused by medical issues. I benefit, but he benefits more.

Even from a wider perspective, is it not to Bruce's advantage if I am able to more effectively engage in routine communication with him? Or even to potentially determine whether he is, or is not, romantically interested in me? If he is not, then I will set aside my emotions and therefore, awkwardness in our future interactions can be avoided. 

Decision made, I take the time to attune my senses to optimal levels. I can hear the throbbing of his artificial heart, and the soft indrawn breaths and exhalations and the whisper of the blanket as it shifts slightly with each small movement. I can even hear the occasional rumble and gurgle as his gastrointestinal tract processes breakfast. 

A sniff brings in dozens of metabolites, including normal biofluid products and biomarkers, as well as the xenobiotic residue of processed medications. All are easily inhalable as miniscule droplets from the eccrine and appocrine sweat glands. After consideration, I discard the information: I do not need to know the specific drugs that Bruce has been prescribed.

I allow myself time to enjoy the comfortingly steady noises of Bruce's slumbering body, before leaving Sickbay in order to fulfill the obligations awaiting my attention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[The Charge of the Light Brigade](https://poets.org/poem/charge-light-brigade)_ , by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
> 
>  _[The Laws of the Navy](http://www.gwpda.org/naval/lawsnavy.htm)_ , by Rear Admiral R. A. Hopwood.
> 
>  _[If](http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_if.htm)_ , by Rudyard Kipling.


	40. Geordi

Waiting our turn to beam over to Starbase 258, I stand with the last few members of my engineering team, reflecting on the previous week's efforts. We're all exhausted, but we did it. A lot of hard work on a tight schedule, but we finally got the last of the sensitive and classified equipment uninstalled from the ruined saucer section and shipped out on time. 

Not that all the work's done; a shipbreaking team off the _Grapple_ just started cutting up the saucer. The scrap'll be hauled to the nearest shipyard for further disassembly and eventual reuse. A chunk of the duranium-alloy is already on its way to the San Francisco Fleet Yards for incorporation into the _Enterprise_ -E's hull.

At last it's our turn to go, and the _Farragut_ fades away in a shimmer of electromagnetic energy.

As the starbase transporter room solidifies into existence around us, Data is there, waiting. Unless he's on duty, I've always been able to count on Data being there when I return from a trip or a mission. The difference this time is the tremulous smile on his face.

The other difference is -- oof -- the bear hug about two seconds after I materialize. I drop my bag and hug him back wholeheartedly. Data keeps on clutching me tightly. My heart sinks as it drives home yet again how worried he's been.

"Hey, it's okay, Data," I murmur, "everything's okay," as he buries his increasingly wet face in my neck. "I've got you. All right, buddy. It's all right." Still hugging, I rub his back comfortingly. 

Looking around, I dare anyone to make something of Data's overtly emotional display, but I should have known... of course my team wouldn't do any such thing. Everyone's heard about the recently-installed emotion chip. Instead they just nod or greet to him in passing. Ensign Tyler even pats Data companionably on the shoulder. 

_Art by[drawsmaddy](https://drawsmaddy.tumblr.com/). Please don't repost._

Eventually he releases me. "Geordi, it is so very good to see you." His voice is shaky. 

It breaks my heart that Data had been afraid he'd never see me again. Even the tiny risk had been a torment for him, with that new emotion chip. As much as his fragility troubles me, I try not to let my concern show with the transporter tech watching. I know they've seen just about everything, but still.

So all I say is, "Hey, I really missed you too!" and give his arm a fond squeeze. Bending over, I grab my carryall. "Let's get out of here."

On the way to my new quarters -- this time, tucked away in a relatively isolated section of the starbase, due to a major trade conference -- I tell Data about the irritating amount of last minute paperwork dropped on me by the newly designated Federation rep for the Veridian IV natives. No work we hadn't already completed, but the sheer volume of minutia required in the documentation was tedious as hell. Sure, I'm glad someone was looking out for the pre-industrials on the next planet over, but the eleventh-hour red tape had cost me a lot of sleep.

So when Data hesitated at my doorway, I coaxed, "Come on in, Data. I would love your company while I have something to eat. But just so you know, I do need to catch some winks before the farewell."

Data tilts his head then smiles in pleased comprehension. "Ah. Forty winks: a nap; a short slumber; a small sleep; a catnap; a snooze."

I chuckle. "Yeah. I'm practically asleep on my feet."

After tossing my bag in the bedroom, I replicate a salad and chicken suqaar over rice for lunch. To my surprise, Data gets the same, but I don't say anything about it until we're seated at the small table.

"Hungry today?" I joke.

Data hesitates. "Lately I have been consuming meals when with others who are dining, as a means of socialization. Do you think it odd?"

"Doesn't bother me either way, but I can see how eating together might make some people feel a little less self-conscious."

"That has been my experience." Data looks down at his plate. "On the runabout, I shared most of the meal periods with Ensign Harkins. We typically reviewed his studies, although on one occasion we discussed the anticipated engineering improvements in the _Sovereign_ -class."

I sigh, setting down my fork. "I miss him too. What happened is such a damned shame. I know Jeff's death was really hard on you, and I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could have been here for you the whole time." 

"Thank you. I have begun corresponding with his family. I wanted them to know that he remained composed despite adversity and personal injury, and that it was his suggestion that led to the breakthrough that enabled us to land safely. To accompany his posthumous Starfleet Achievement Medal, I submitted suitable images from my neural net for release to his family."

"That was really thoughtful of you. I'm sure they will treasure those."

"Commander Maddox was very concerned how such a devastating loss would impact Ensign Harkins' family." 

Surprised that that selfish asswipe had ever had a thought about anyone but himself, I take a bite of chicken to buy time to think. The incongruity of the weasel's behavior reminds me to check if the investigation on the _Daystrom_ -3 incident has been finalized yet. I want to read the whole official report, but especially Data's statement. He hasn't volunteered any details yet, and I didn't want to push him to talk while I was so far away. I'm hoping that knowing exactly what happened will help me better understand his emotional state.

Given Data's dejected mood, I decide to just let the comment about Maddox pass unremarked. "It's been a rough time for so many families. We won't forget Jeff, or any of the others that we lost on Veridian III. They were all good people, and they didn't deserve what happened to them. I know it's hard, but we'll get through this together, okay?"

"Oh-kay."

The overly careful enunciation tugs at my memory. Yeah. A sign of distress -- that time I was running diagnostics on Data after the D'Arsay archive infected him, and he was asking me what it felt like to go crazy. 

I try to reassure Data, like I'd done back then. "You're going to be all right. I'll always look out for you and protect you. _Always._ No matter what it takes. All right?"

Even I can see Data's smile is strained. "Yes. Thank you, Geordi."

"We can talk about things anytime you want, whenever you feel ready. You know, it really is all right to not feel okay after such traumatic experiences. That's completely normal, and that's people who aren't even dealing with new emotions, like you are."

"I am sorry that I have been so argumentative recently."

"It's okay," I soothe. "I knew you were upset, and you have every right to your feelings. But no matter how much we prepare, sometimes stuff will happen that's just gonna be out of our control. The thing is, that's real easy to say, but very hard to actually believe. I know I've second-guessed myself a million times. And you will too, if you haven't already. After something bad happens, it just feels like it's our fault. Like there's more we should have done or something else we should have thought of, but the fact is, we can only do the best we know how at the moment."

"'It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose,'" Data quotes. "'That is not a weakness. That is life.'"

Haven't I heard that before? I rack my brains but can't come up with it.

"Captain Picard told me that."

"Ohhhh, right. I knew it sounded familiar." I stab a chunk of carrot. "That was when you were upset about losing to -- what was that crabby old guy's name? -- in Stratagema." 

"Grand Master Sirna Kolrami. But I was not upset; at that time I was not capable--" He breaks off and tilts his head fractionally. "What is it?"

Shaking my head, I say, "I've always thought you had your own kind of emotion. Even if it was very muted compared to what you experience now, I knew you felt something. I never second-guessed _that_. You've always been such a kind and considerate person." _Even to some people that really didn't deserve it_ , I think.

"Thank you, Geordi. Speaking of which, I should let you finish your meal so that you can get some rest." He rises to his feet with his barely touched plate.

"All right, buddy. Oh, wait -- have you changed your mind about coming to the farewell tonight? Last chance to see some of the engineering team before they ship out."

Data hesitates at the recycler. "I am finding it quite upsetting to think of so many colleagues that I may never see again. Lieutenant Barclay in particular. His reassignment to Jupiter Station is a great loss to the Engineering staff."

"Come on, tell him that yourself tonight. Besides, wait until you see how excited he is about going to work with Dr. Zimmerman on the ship's EMH project. It'll make you feel good that he's so happy, I promise. It's great to see people move on to bigger and better opportunities. And I'm sure he would love to correspond with you on the project." 

"I would enjoy that."

Something occurs to me and I snap my fingers. "Hey! Reg will be in the perfect position to help you out with your portable EMH project, once you start up on that again. See? One of the good things about personnel transfers is that you'll have close contacts throughout the fleet."

"And externally as well," Data says thoughtfully. "Before he departed on leave, Worf promised to keep in touch with me."

"Yeah, me too. I hope he decides to return to active duty. Unless he finds something or someone that makes him happier, I guess."

"Geordi, do you expect that you will return to the ship? Or will you stay with Dr. Brahms if you begin a relationship?" 

I set my fork down again. "Even if things are going well, I'll come back for the commissioning and stay through the shakedown cruise at least."

"You are not concerned about the separation?"

"Well, it won't be fun but it's only for a year or so. Two at most. Plus I can probably take leave now and then to go see her, and you know she's gonna want to check out the ship for herself. So I think it'll be okay."

"Over the years, you have mentioned several times that you see yourself as a career officer. Have you changed your mind?"

"Yeah, I always thought I'd be a lifer. But, you know, I'm not getting any younger and the things Captain Picard told us about our future changed my perspective a little. Sure, I've always wanted to command my own ship, but I also want to get married, have my own family. I'm sure you've noticed that shipboard duty doesn't exactly make that easy, especially when both people are career-minded. I would never go into any relationship thinking that her career comes second. Leah and I will both have to compromise if we want to make things work for us, and for the kids." 

I can't help but smile at the thought of them. "And, you know, being a dad and an author sounds to me like a pretty darn good life. So maybe that means I'll be getting out after the shakedown. Maybe living on Mars."

"I could transfer to Mars."

That takes me aback. "Data, you know I'd really love having you around, but I could never ask that much of you -- you have your own life to live. Probably your own command, soon enough, or if you decide you don't want that, I bet you can teach at the academy. I mean, you still ultimately want to end up at Oxford, right?"

Data nods slowly. "That is an option."

"You have tons of options, and there's lots of time before any decisions have to be made. Anyway, the fleet's big, but it's not _that_ big. We'll see each other now and then. Especially if you're on Earth and we're on Mars. You can visit us all the time. We're gonna need a babysitter, you know," I tease.

"Yes, that is true." Glancing down at my plate, Data says, "I must apologize. Your lunch has grown cold."

"Ah, forget that," I say, and get to my feet. "C'mere, buddy." 

I pull him into a hug. "However things work out, it's going to be all right. Distance isn't as big a deal as it seems, not between family. Look how separated mine has been over the years, and we're still very close because we keep up with each other. Birthdays, holidays, all the important events, and in between -- anytime we feel like it. 

Once again, Data clings to me. I pat him on the back. "And don't forget, you'll be busy too, Data. You'll hardly have a chance to miss me. You'll see."

He releases me and I smile at him. "All right?"

"Yes. Thank you, Geordi. I will leave you to your rest now."

"Okay. See you tonight. I'll save you a seat." 

Sitting back down after Data leaves, I take another bite of suqaar before deciding to recycle the remnants. I'm not that hungry any more, and besides, there'll be plenty of good food and drink at the farewell dinner party.

I pop everything into the recycler slot and then take a quick shower, before falling into bed with a sigh of relief. I feel like I could sleep around the clock, but a couple hours will have to do. The old sonic shower set on max trick ought to wake me right up if I'm not feeling clear-headed enough to review my notes for my speech.

Of course Commander Riker will kick off the event: welcome everyone and say a few words since the captain's still away, then hold a moment of silence for the six Engineering crewmen killed in the crash. Then he'll make a toast to their memory, acknowledging the traditional small round table set in honor of the departed, with a single place setting, a red rose, and inverted wine glass.

After dessert, the farewell portion of the event starts. As the Engineering department head, I'll give my little speech then call up each departing crewmember one by one, give a little backhistory, tell an anecdote or two, then announce the person's next duty station. Then the individual gets their chance to say a few words. Hopefully Reg hasn't gotten himself too worked up over that part.

Thinking back to the conversation with Data, I decide to add something to my ending comments: how important it is for all of us to take the time to keep in touch with shipmates on their way to new assignments or civilian life. 

That reminds me that the only person Data's regularly corresponded with in the past is the slimeball. It's definitely high time for a change. Worf will respond reliably, since he promised. I'll ask Reg to make an effort, as a special favor to me, to keep up with Data. And of course once the chip's fixed and I go to the Fleet Yards, I'll make keeping in touch with Data a top priority. I'll comm him every night, if that's what he needs.

Still, the way he was so clingy earlier... it kind of bothers me. The chip never made Data so touchy-feely before, not even after I was freed by the Klingons in a sort of prisoner swap. Man, there's one huge thing to be grateful for -- Commander Riker had told me Data had instantly offered himself to the Duras sisters in a bid to rescue me. That's Data all over, chip or not, but it would have been a truly horrific experience for him. I'm so thankful the captain didn't allow it.

At least Data's getting regular counseling, even if I wish Deanna was available to do it. I'll just keep reminding him that I'm here for him too. I've got some mandatory fun to get through before I can work full time with him on rebuilding his lab, but it'll definitely be a good thing for him when it's just me and him working together all day. Hopefully things will get back to normal soon. Or new normal, anyway, as he gets used to having emotion. 

Hm. Maybe there's another way I can help things feel more normal for Data. Maybe part of the reason he's so... touch-starved, for lack of a better word, is Spot's death. Seems like every time I saw him off-duty after the crash, he had Spot cuddled up in his arms, if he wasn't brushing her or playing with her. Losing Spot so unexpectedly had to be really traumatic, but he hasn't said anything about his cat since the night after Spot's cremation. I'll make sure to bring up Spot in private and encourage Data to grieve the loss of his pet. 

Meanwhile, I'll look into getting Data a new cat. Or how about a pair of young kittens? Two tiny little terrors would cheer him right up with their antics, and they'd keep each other company. Or maybe there's a cat with some kind of medical issue that Data can nurture and fuss over. Yeah, that'd work. Then again, kittens wouldn't be as set in their ways and should be a lot easier to train and socialize. Anyway, someone on this starbase has got to have a cat needing a good home.

The mental image of Data laughing himself silly as two tiny furballs rampage -- one momentarily perching like a pirate's parrot on his shoulder and the other launching towards the couch -- makes me chuckle sleepily to myself, as I can finally relax enough to drift off.


End file.
